by Liz Mugavero
Stan sighed. “I’m not in the mood to role-play, Cyril. And I think I can handle asking a few questions. You wanted me to do this, remember? I’m the only one and all that? Not that I don’t think it’s a conflict of interest for me, too. After all, I am dating her brother.”
Cyril squinted at her, then waved her concern away. “Unless he’s got something to hide, that doesn’t matter. It’s not just about asking questions. You have to ask the right ones. So tell me what you’re going to ask when you go in there.”
“I’m going to ask her if she’s looking into Helga’s death as foul play.”
“No.”
“No?”
“You’re going to ask her WHY she’s looking into Helga’s death as foul play. That way you’re not giving her the opportunity to shut you down with a one-word answer. Like ‘no.’”
“How can she say no?” Stan asked. “She’s been questioning you!” She lowered her voice as a woman walking past gave her a strange look. She couldn’t help it. He was such a strange man. The potential murderer thing notwithstanding.
“Yeah, but she hasn’t arrested me, so that’s not public news yet. If she doesn’t want to answer you, she will find every way in her power to evade you. She’s very good at being a police spokesperson. They love to give you a ‘no comment’ until the PR guy can figure out his positioning statement. Sorry,” he said when her eyes darkened. “I know you were a PR person. No harm meant.”
Stan exhaled loudly. “It’s fine, Cyril. I’m going to go in there and get the best story I can. Is there anything else you want to coach me on?”
He thought about it for a minute. “Show me your tools.”
“My what?”
“Your tools. Notebook? Pencil?”
“You gave me notebooks,” she reminded him. “And I have a pen.”
He shook his head. “Always have a pencil.”
“Why?”
“What if you have to chase her outside and question her in the rain? Or the bitter cold? Your pen will freeze.”
She stared at him. “It’s sunny out. And I’m not chasing her outside anyway.”
“Fine, fine.” He thought for a minute. “I guess you’ll be okay,” he said, finally.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” She started to walk away, then looked back when he called her name.
“You’ll need this,” he said, handing over a press pass with her name typed neatly on it. “Otherwise, she won’t even say hello.”
Chapter 25
The door marked RESIDENT STATE TROOPER, with an additional plaque below reading JESSICA K. PASQUALE, was shut tight when Stan approached. She could see a light on underneath the door, though, so she rapped on it and waited.
The town hall workday was in full force. The city clerk’s office, across the hall, had a line of five people. Behind the tax window, Luisa Riley, town tax collector, was engaged in an animated story one of her coworkers told. The young woman’s arms flailed in the air, bracelets jingling, as she described her daughter’s antics with the training potty, which the little girl had apparently stuck on her head and couldn’t dislodge. Luisa, leaning against the counter, was laughing. She waved at Stan when she saw her watching.
Then Pasquale’s door flew open, startling Stan back to the task at hand. Her expression didn’t change when she saw Stan there, but Stan could imagine the inner sigh.
“Hi,” Stan said. She was never sure whether to call her “Trooper,” “Jessie,” or something else altogether. Especially when she saw her in an official capacity.
Pasquale raised her eyebrows. “Hello.”
“Do you have a minute? I have a few questions. Oh, I should probably show you this.” She fumbled around in her pocket for the press pass Cyril had so thoughtfully provided her, and produced it.
Pasquale glanced at it, then did a double take. Her eyes slid to Stan, then back to the pass, then returned. “Press?” she said, her voice tinged with black humor.
“Yes, I’m helping Cyril with the Holler.” Stan shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, then corrected herself. She couldn’t let Pasquale sense she wasn’t feeling all that confident. Even if she wasn’t. “I’d like to talk to you about Helga Oliver.” She watched the other woman’s jaw set.
“Come in,” Pasquale said through clenched teeth. Stan stepped through the door and flinched when it slammed behind her. “I don’t know what you think you’re up to, Stan, but there’s nothing to talk about. Does my brother know you switched occupations?”
Stan flushed and ignored the question. “According to Cyril, there is something to talk about,” Stan said. “I’m not up to anything except bringing the story to Frog Ledge citizens. I’d like to know if... er, why you’re now considering Helga Oliver’s death a murder.”
“No comment.”
“Jess—Trooper, we’re writing the story anyway.” Stan stood up a bit taller and uncapped her pen. “You may as well help me get it right.”
Pasquale glared at Stan. If looks could kill, she’d be as dead as the late Helga Oliver. “We have reason to believe foul play might have been involved in Mrs. Oliver’s death. We are conducting an investigation and as such, I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation. We don’t believe there is any danger to the public at this time. That’s all I have to say.”
Stan scribbled furiously in her official steno pad. She was getting into this. “When did you first come to this conclusion?”
“We opened the investigation earlier this week.”
“Like on Sunday? After her death? Or later?”
“No comment.”
“Why did you open it? What prompted that action?”
“No comment.”
“Did anyone tip you off?” Like Betty Meany?
“No comment.”
She couldn’t resist. “Have you thought about asking Sarah Oliver to connect you with Helga through her psychic abilities?”
Pasquale stared daggers at her and said nothing.
Stan decided to throw her a curve ball. “Speaking of ghosts and communing with the dead, do you have any thoughts on the ghost hunters coming to town?”
“No.”
Apparently it wasn’t such a curve ball. Stan hissed out a frustrated breath. “If at first you didn’t believe Mrs. Oliver’s death was foul play, was the crime scene compromised?”
Pasquale made a sound of complete indignation. “What do you think this is, CSI Frog Ledge?” She stalked around her small office once, then again. “Ever since you moved to this town things have been upside down. You know that, right?”
Stan managed a smile. “Good to know my black cloud is dedicated to following me wherever I go.”
“Off the record.” Pasquale waited, her face stony, until Stan flipped her notebook closed. “You know I was at the crime scene. I heard the call on the scanner about an accidental and headed over for two reasons. One, because I know Helga spends—spent—most of her time there, and two, because I always check out accidentals. Because sometimes they’re not so accidental. I followed the appropriate procedures once I arrived and recorded everything. Unfortunately, there were people traipsing around inside before I got there”—she looked pointedly at Stan—“and I hope nothing was disturbed. But I don’t have any reason to believe the crime scene was compromised.”
“Why is that off the record? People are just gonna ask anyway.”
Pasquale made a frustrated noise that was half moan, half growl. “It’s off the record because I said so! I am the police here. I get to call the shots, not you.”
“I’m just trying to write a story,” Stan said, holding her hands up in defense. “I want you to be placed in the best possible light, too. Did you remove any evidence?”
“No comment.”
Back to this again.
“Why did you question Cyril Pierce? What evidence points to him?”
Pasquale groaned. “No freakin’ comment.”
“Can I name him?”
“Absol
utely not. I never went on the record stating who we questioned. Does he want you to?”
At Stan’s shrug, Pasquale stopped pacing and sat on the edge of her desk. “He’s crazy.”
“All in the name of journalism. You know how those guys are. Truth-tellers.”
“Aren’t you one of them, too?”
“Just for today. I’m the one usually spinning the story. Now I just bake dog treats.”
The sound that left Pasquale’s mouth could’ve been a laugh. Stan was encouraged. Sort of.
“Listen. That’s all I can tell you right now. We’re looking into Helga’s—Mrs. Oliver’s—death more closely.” Stan saw the cloud pass across her face. It must be hard to treat this like any other case when the victim was basically your family. “It’s an ongoing investigation. When—if—we have more, we’ll have a press conference, as appropriate.”
May as well drop a bombshell and catch her off guard. “What about Dale Hatmaker?”
Pasquale cocked her head, but not before Stan caught the surprise that flickered across her face. “What about him?”
“I don’t know. Seems he had plenty of reasons to want Helga out of the picture. Her job, for one. Certainly more reasons than Cyril Pierce would. He was in the museum this week, poking through everything and talking about getting rid of pieces. Maeve Johnson looked kind of scared of him. Have you checked to see if he was around early Sunday morning?”
“Are you offering a tip on a possible murder?” Pasquale asked, her tone cold.
“No, I’m simply making an observation.”
Pasquale said nothing. Her face had returned to pure cop.
“So, did you?” Stan persisted.
“Did I what?”
“Check to see if Hatmaker was around the museum early Sunday? Or anyone else who shouldn’t have been, for that matter?”
“I’m sorry, but when did you take over my supervisor’s job?”
Stan flushed a little but held her ground. “It’s worth asking.”
“I am quite competent on how to conduct an investigation,” Pasquale responded, her words clipped through her gritted teeth. “I think we’re done.”
Stan flipped her notebook shut. “Have other media outlets been alerted yet?”
“No one’s called me. And I’d like to keep it that way.”
“I can’t help if they pick something up from our story,” Stan said.
“No,” Pasquale said. “You can’t. But you can make sure that you’re not reporting something just to put the newspaper out.”
Stan flipped her notebook closed and capped her pen. She slid them both back in her purse and looked at Pasquale. “I don’t know Cyril that well, but I sincerely doubt anything he does is just to ‘put a paper out.’ He strikes me as somebody who really believes in what he does, and wants to serve the community. And given the fact he’s the person you’re questioning, I highly doubt he’s trying to sell a newspaper.”
With that, she left Pasquale’s office and closed the door behind her, leaving the other woman staring after her. She smiled, aware that for once, she’d finally gotten in the last word with Jake’s sister. And she would still be on time to meet Dede, with her pet food chef’s hat on. They had a wedding to discuss.
Chapter 26
Stan pulled into Dede’s driveway a few minutes early, but the front door immediately opened. Dede leaned out, waving.
“Hello, Stan!” she called. A gorgeous Irish setter stuck his head out the door next to Dede’s leg. Stan saw his tail waving behind him. It reminded her of Nutty’s plume.
“Hi, Dede. I hope it’s okay I’m early.” She walked up the front steps to the little yellow house. The dog squeezed past Dede to get to her, sniffing and licking her hand.
“He knows exactly who you are. How cute is that?” Dede hugged her. “Your timing is perfect. Come in.”
Stan stepped inside Dede’s little house and immediately felt at home. It was small but cozy, with the kind of furniture her gram would’ve loved and the smell of baking cookies filling the air. Stan’s stomach rumbled. Lunch had escaped her again. Everyone else had gone to Gerry’s after the funeral for a catered meal.
“This is Gus.” Dede motioned toward the setter, who sat at Stan’s feet, tongue hanging out, smiling at her.
“Hi, Gus.” Stan petted him. Gus stood up and licked her face. Stan laughed. “He’s friendly, eh?”
“He’s a love. And this”—Dede pointed at a little white puffball with black ears and a black stripe down her back perched on a kitchen chair—“is Lila.”
“Aww. Hi, Lila.” Stan reached out and let the dog sniff her hand. “She’s adorable.”
“Isn’t she?” Dede picked the dog up and nuzzled her. “I don’t have her groomed with the straight hair like the Shih Tzu show dogs. She doesn’t really like that hairstyle.”
“Well, she’s a rescue dog. She’s probably more down to earth anyway,” Stan said. “I don’t have my schnoodle groomed like a schnauzer. She likes having her own hairstyle.”
“Exactly. I knew you’d understand. I made coffee and cookies. Please, sit.”
“That sounds great.” Stan pulled out a chair. “It’s been a long day, with the funeral and all. I saw you at the cemetery but didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Oh, my goodness, you should have.” Dede brought over a plate loaded with gooey chocolate-chip cookies. “I thought about rescheduling our meeting because we’d both be so drained, but then I thought, what better time to focus on beautiful animals? And look. My other babies have come to meet you. They heard you were baking them a special treat.”
Two cats peeked around the corner, eyes fixed on Stan. The black and white one seemed braver—he? she? advanced cautiously into the room, sniffing the air around Stan. The other, a long-haired buff-colored cat, remained in the hallway, content to let the other cat take the lead.
“That’s Mittens,” Dede said, nodding to the black and white cat. “If you couldn’t tell from her feet.” It was true. Her body and legs were mostly black, but her feet were white, as was the middle part of her face.
“She’s so pretty.” Stan reached down to pet her.
“And that’s Diamond.” Dede nodded at the shyer of the two. “He’s hiding from you, but when he gets comfortable and comes out, you’ll see the diamond on his head. They’re my other babies.” She waved at Diamond. “You can come out, sugar,” she crooned, making kiss noises at him. He watched her with thinly veiled contempt. Stan recognized the look. Nutty had perfected it.
“Did you know Helga well?” she asked, unable to keep her eyes from straying to the cookies. “And, was her maiden name Cross?”
“Why, yes, it was! Helga Cross.” Dede smiled. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time. Yes, I did know her well. My big sister, God rest her soul, was very good friends with Helga. Go on, eat them,” she urged. “How do you take your coffee?”
Stan dug in gratefully. “These are divine,” she said around a mouthful. “What was your sister’s name? Oh, and black coffee is fine. No sugar.”
“My sister? Donna Cook was her married name. Rochefort, before that. Yes, there was a whole group of girls who used to congregate at our house.” Dede smiled at the memory as she poured coffee from her small pot into two cups and added a dash of milk to hers. “Donna, Helga, Maeve Johnson—she was always Maeve Johnson, she never married, you know. Alice Donahue. Jackie Kelly. Donna was always snotty when I tried to play with them, like big sisters usually are, but Helga and Jackie always let me. Jackie’s gone, too.” Her eyes clouded. “So’s Alice. Maeve is the only one left now. Helga, though, my, was she a lot of fun. Such a daredevil. Never afraid to do or say anything, and she said a lot. Usually got her in trouble, too. I remember once she was downtown at the candy store. You know, where the flower shop is now?” She carried the mugs over and set them down.
Stan nodded.
“She was studying for something, carrying this big, heavy textbook with her.” Dede demonstrated the
width of the book with her hands. “Saw Ronald Morrison, Jackie’s boyfriend at the time. They got in a shouting match. Helga seemed to think Ronald was being, well, unkind to Jackie, and she wasn’t having it. But old Miss Swenson who owned the candy store threw them both out for causing a ruckus. Ronald walked out first, dismissing Helga. Well, Helga followed him out; then she charged down the street after him, jumped in the air like a basketball player, and bashed him on the head with the book so hard he went down like a lead balloon.” Dede demonstrated the bashing with the imaginary book in her hands.
“You’re kidding.” Stan giggled.
“I am not kidding!” Dede laughed, too. “She was a trip. I’ll miss her.”
Stan tried to appear nonchalant. “So you must remember the murder case from 1949. The boxer?”
“Of course.” Dede sat. “That’s what all the hoopla is about with these silly ghost hunters. I’ve heard all about it. My phone has been ringing off the hook all morning after that town meeting yesterday. Did you go to that, dear?”
“I did. I wanted to hear more about it. I didn’t see you there.”
Dede wrinkled her nose. “That’s because I didn’t go. It just felt slightly blasphemous, do you know what I mean? I know people like those shows and that’s fine. But when it’s in our own backyard, I’m just not sure how I feel. Why can’t people just leave the past alone?”
Same thing Betty had said. Abbie was right. No one wanted this dirty laundry aired. But why? A matter of principle? A New England thing, like Char had said? Or something more sinister than that? “It must’ve been hard for that man’s family, to never get justice for him,” Stan said.
“I suppose you’re right,” Dede said. “And not many people are left who remember it, anyway. But my sister and her friends, they were all there that night, at the party. Helga’s boy, oh, what was his name . . . ?”
“Tommy,” Stan supplied.
“Right! Tommy was the other fighter, so they were all invited. I remember it like it was yesterday. They were all dressed up, so excited. And to have it turn out so horribly. What a tragedy.
