by Liz Mugavero
Pierce turned his attention back to Stan. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“I’m Stan Connor. I live in Frog Ledge with your son. Well, not with your son,” she corrected, horrified. “I mean, we live in the same town.”
“I get it, Ms. Connor,” Pierce said in the same deadpan voice Cyril used. “Let’s go over to my apartment.” He shuffled slowly past Stan to his open apartment, motioning for her to go first. He followed her in, closing the door behind him—and closing her in with him. The stale smell, coupled with the narrow, crammed space, made her throat constrict. She hoped nothing dead lurked underneath all these piles of things.
Stan took a few careful steps inside, then turned, not wanting him to come up too close behind her. Instead, she found him watching her curiously from the doorway.
“How can I help ya, young lady?” he asked.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your afternoon—”
Arthur chuckled, which caused him to wheeze. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose loudly before folding it and returning it to his pocket. Stan’s stomach clenched. She never understood why anyone would want to put what was effectively dirty tissues in your pocket and carry them around all day. And reuse them, to boot. He cleared his throat. “You’re not interrupting. What can I do for you? You here about my son?”
Stan hesitated, not sure how to answer. The old man had to know—didn’t he?—that Cyril had been arrested.
“I read the paper,” he said. “I know what happened.” He waved his hand impatiently, urging her forward. “Go. Sit.”
Obediently, she proceeded through the tiny kitchen into a living room that had two chairs and an ottoman. Beyond the living room, she could see a bedroom and bathroom down another small hallway.
Stan had still never seen Cyril Pierce’s office in Frog Ledge, but she’d always imagined it had that true newsroom vibe, despite its one-man staff. Arthur Pierce’s apartment gave her the confidence that she was correct, if his son was anything like him. Piles of newspapers, old and new, were stacked on every available surface in the living room. An old-fashioned typewriter sat on a table by the window, with blank paper stacked next to it. Stan got the sense that the machine was actually used. She half-expected to hear the burps and buzzes and static of a police scanner. She chose the chair with the least amount of newspapers piled on it and sat on the edge.
“You can throw those on the floor,” he said. “I have a reason to have all of these, you know.”
“I’m fine,” she said, but he was already off on a tangent.
“Everyone’s always trying to clean up after me, but I like my apartment this way. I know I should put my shoes away, but still. Even my wife understood. She said, ‘Once a newsman, always a newsman.’” He looked sad. Abruptly he got up, went into the bathroom, and returned with a handful of pills, then searched for some water.
Stan spied a glass on the crowded coffee table to the left of her chair—right next to a bottle of Scotch. She picked up the water and handed it to him. He nodded his thanks.
Once he’d swallowed his pills, he threw a pile of stuff off his other chair and sat. “So, what about my son? He didn’t kill no one, you know. ’Specially not her.”
“I don’t think he did either, Mr. Pierce. That’s why I wanted to ask you a few questions.”
Arthur stuck his damp cigar back in his mouth and chewed, waiting.
“Do you remember the murder of Felix Constantine? The boxer from 1949?”
Arthur blinked once. Twice. Rolled the cigar in his mouth. “Sure I do,” he said, finally. “I covered it. Why you wanna know about that?”
So much for Cyril’s theory that he didn’t remember. “Because I think it might have something to do with Helga’s death.”
Arthur didn’t speak for a long time. When he did, though his face remained unchanged, Stan detected a tremor in his voice. “Why’n the world would you think that, young lady? And what do you know about her dying?”
Stan spread her hands wide. “All I know is that suddenly it’s a murder investigation and your son is sitting in the state police barracks. If it has nothing to do with that, what would it have to do with? Why else would anyone want to kill an eighty-seven year-old?”
“Except no one killed her,” Pierce said. “I think it’s all just a big mistake.”
“That’s quite a mistake.”
“The police have been known to make them.”
“Did Helga have any enemies that you knew of?”
Pierce smiled slightly. “You mean besides the people who didn’t do what she wanted them to do? Nah, everyone loved her.”
“Mr. Pierce, I’m serious. This is important.”
“I gathered that when my son went to jail,” he said.
Stan leaned forward. “Did you leave a book on my front porch?”
Arthur frowned. “Why would you think I know where you lived?”
“Your son knows where I live. Someone left me the book Helga wrote back in the nineties. It has the initials ACP inside it.”
Arthur didn’t respond.
“It was marked to the piece Helga wrote. About Felix Constantine.”
Still nothing.
“Is there something in there that’s a clue? That could point us to Helga’s killer and help Cyril? Help me understand, Mr. Pierce.”
“Young lady, if I had a clue that could help my son, I’d surely give it to you. But I’m ’fraid I don’t.”
Stan gritted her teeth in frustration. “Have you heard about the ghost hunters who came to town to look at the old library building where Felix died?”
“Yup.”
“Then you know they’re looking into paranormal activity there. They got an anonymous tip. Which seems convenient.”
Arthur stuck his nasty cigar in an ashtray and picked something off his tongue. “Don’t pay much mind to that kind of nonsense. What’re you gettin’ at?”
“It seems like a coincidence that Helga died and the state police are investigating it as a murder, and at the same time there’s a ghost hunt going on in the building where this other murder occurred. It might sound crazy, but I feel like the two are related, and you’re the one who would have all that insider knowledge.”
Stan felt like she was starring in her own amateur episode of Cold Case. If she’d known any songs popular in the 1940s or 1950s, they’d certainly be playing in her brain right now. Since she didn’t, her brain instead chose to play “The Chain” in a continuous loop. She wondered if she’d ever hear anything besides Stevie Nicks in her head again. Good thing she was a fan.
Pierce remained silent. He took off his glasses, rubbed them on his sleeve, and readjusted them on his face. Stared at Stan.
“You reported the story,” she tried again. “What do you think happened to Mr. Constantine? Did you have a theory on who killed him?”
“How would I know that? The police never figured it out. Damn straight we woulda wrote about it if they had.” Pierce waved his cigar. “Someone like him, who knows? He wasn’t a local. Any number of folks coulda been after him. Followed him here. Who knows.” He pointed the cigar at her. “Way he operated, wouldn’t surprise me. Slick, he was. That wasn’t no upstanding profession, boxing. Just ’cause you’re a smooth character. B’sides, the coroner couldn’t find nothing for a weapon. That was something that didn’t get a lot of press. Could be, the drunken fool fell and hit his head. Maybe that’s why they never pursued it.”
His words barely hung together. Stan’s brain hurt trying to follow his logic. “So, what would all that have to do with Helga? Would someone kill her because of something she knew about Felix’s death?”
Silence. Then Pierce shook his head. “Helga was my friend. Much as I wish it hadn’t happened, she took a bad spill. All this hoopla—well, it’s just that. Hoopla.” Arthur got up and went to a leaning pile of stuff on his counter. He perused it, then pulled out a cigar box and selected a new one. Lit it, puffed, and returned to his seat. Stan had a tr
oublesome vision of what would happen if Arthur fell asleep with that cigar lit around all these newspapers.
“Mr. Pierce, with all due respect, what if it isn’t hoopla? What if there’s something to this theory? It’s the only way we’re going to be able to help Cyril,” she said. “Helga seemed like she wanted to remember Felix. She wrote a whole article in her book. I would think you did a lot of work on that story. Can you please just think about it and let me know if anything comes to mind?”
Pierce regarded her with no expression, chewing incessantly on that cigar. “Listen,” he said, finally. “There’s only one way you’re gonna be able to figure out what happened to that boxer.”
“There is?” Stan’s heart started to pound. He knew something. Now they could move forward, figure this out, get Cyril out of jail, and restore Frog Ledge’s sanity. “How?”
“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.” Pierce nodded, looking immensely pleased with himself. “He’s got all the answers.”
“Sir Arthur . . . I’m sorry, Mr. Pierce. What do you mean?”
He looked at her like she was an incredibly stupid woman. “Just what I said. Doyle. He’s got the answers.”
“But he’s dead,” Stan pointed out.
Pierce shook his head. “You young folks. No imagination at all.” He laid the cigar in an ashtray and picked up the television remote. “Young lady, I have a show to watch. You’ll excuse me, won’tcha?”
With that, he turned the TV on. The volume had to be at thirty or higher, because the sound nearly blasted Stan out of her seat. Resigned, she thanked him, hoped he heard her, and let herself out, wondering how much Scotch Pierce had downed before her arrival.
Stan took the elevator back to the first floor. As the door opened to let her off she almost bumped into Carla Miller, who was waiting to get on.
“Hello! We meet again,” Carla said with a bright smile.
“Hey, Carla.” Stan stepped off and held the door so it wouldn’t close. Carla got on, her bright smile remaining in place until the doors closed between them. Stan watched the buttons until it stopped. On the fourth floor.
Chapter 34
Stan didn’t know where else to go but home. Her bright idea of confronting Betty had resulted in one more person angry with her. Her visit with Arthur Pierce hadn’t gotten her anywhere but smelling like old cigar, armed with a drunken suggestion to ask a dead author for help. Fabulous. Just like the rest of the week.
She pulled into her driveway and headed inside just as her cell phone rang. Fumbling around in her purse as she tried to get the door open and keep Nutty from running outside, she saw Brenna’s number just as it went to voice mail. Hope filled her chest. Maybe Brenna had decided she was being silly and wanted to tell Stan she wasn’t angry anymore. That she was on her way over to help with the wedding cake. She waited impatiently for her voice mail alert to sound, then pressed Play.
And felt her spirit deflate as Brenna’s voice filled her ear, cool and aloof and not friendly at all.
“Stan, it’s Brenna. I wanted to let you know that I’m resigning from Pawsitively Organic. I’ve accepted a full-time job and I think it’s best if we part ways now.” A slight hesitation, then she spoke again. Stan could hear a faint quiver in her voice. Or maybe she just hoped to hear it. “Thanks for letting me work with you. I learned a lot.” Click.
That was it. Over. Stan felt tears prick her eyes. Just like that. She was on her own. Stan leaned against her door and allowed more tears to come. Seemed like all she’d been doing today, aside from making people mad, was crying. The dogs ran over to greet her. They looked concerned. Scruffy jumped up and held her paw out, sensing Stan was upset. Stan smiled through her tears and took the dog’s paw.
“Thanks, honey. Okay, I have to get myself together. Lots to do. I can’t change it, right? If Brenna doesn’t want to work with me, there’s nothing I can do to make her change her mind.”
She shooed them down the hall and shrugged off her coat as the doorbell rang behind her. She cringed. Now what? More bad news? She didn’t know if she could take it.
Cracking the door, she peered out. Amara was on the front step. “Bad time?” she asked, noting Stan’s red eyes.
“Don’t ask.” Stan pulled the door wide. “What’s up?”
“You’ve been leaving me voice mails to stop by. About the DNA thing.”
“Right. Yes, come on in.”
“Sorry I didn’t get to call you back sooner.” Amara stepped in and shut the door behind her. “This last inspection for the clinic is killing me.” She stopped and looked at Stan. “You look like you’re having a great day.”
“You don’t know the half.” Stan led her to the kitchen. “A cat showed up at my house last night. Apparently he was Helga’s cat. Sarah dumped him on my porch. Did some woo-woo thing that if he was meant to be with me, he’d stay. So I lectured her about it and she cried, and then I caved and said I’d try to keep the cat. Apparently Helga told her—just yesterday—how wonderful I am. Then I went to see Jake. Which didn’t go so well because of this reporting thing. But it went better than it did with Brenna, who actually quit working with me. Just before you came in. Let’s see, what else? Betty’s mad at me, too, because I asked her about her mother being at the Constantine murder scene. In case you haven’t been following, that’s been a big story in town.” She stopped for a breath and handed Amara the DNA envelope.
Amara stared at her, fascinated. “Wow. That’s quite a day.”
“That wasn’t the end of it, but really, I don’t have the energy. Want coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’m coffee’d out. Do you want some of my Rescue Remedy?” She pulled a yellow tube out of her purse. “Great for stress.”
“Sure, why not. I’ll try anything today.” Stan accepted the spray. “What do I do with it?”
“Spray in your mouth.” Amara nodded approvingly as Stan sprayed a few squirts, then took the envelope and read the name of the company. “Sounds familiar. I think Helga wrote down for me where she sent it. Let me look.” She fumbled in her purse. “That way I won’t open someone else’s mail by accident. Aha.” She pulled out a slip of paper. “Yep, same company. Guess I’m good.” Amara ripped open the package and scanned the single sheet of paper as Stan brought her mug to the table.
“I have no idea how to read this,” she said.
Stan peered over Amara’s shoulder at the five different pieces of paper Amara pulled out of the envelope. One was a certificate stating Amara’s DNA had been analyzed by the company. The next two were reports with graphs at the bottom. The final two were maps with lots of swirly lines snaking across them.
“Hmm.” Stan took one of the reports and glanced through it. “There’s a website where it says you can log in and see your personal page and some of the possible relations.”
“Well, that doesn’t help me. I don’t have a log-in.” Amara threw up her hands. “Forget it. I have so many things to do for the clinic. I can’t be—”
“Amara. You are way too stressed out. So much for Zen. And Rescue Remedy. Look, you use the kit number and password up here.” Stan pointed to the top left corner of the report.
Amara broke into a smile. “You’re so smart. Got a computer?”
“Yeah, I’m real smart. So smart the whole town hates me. Here.” Stan handed her the iPad. “Have at it.”
“The whole town doesn’t hate you. Maybe I will have coffee. Unless you’re busy. I can do this from home,” Amara said.
“No, please. I need something to keep me occupied,” Stan said. “At least until whatever mayhem the ghost hunt brings tonight.” She got up to pour Amara’s coffee.
Amara cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure you want to be involved in that? Given everything else going on,” she said when Stan opened her mouth to protest.
Stan shrugged. “I may as well do something that I’ve always wanted to do.”
“Good way to keep it in perspective. Besides, this happened before. You thought people were
upset with you.” Amara shrugged. “It all worked out, remember?”
“Thanks for reminding me that this isn’t the first time I’ve alienated myself from the entire town,” Stan said. She brought the mug over and rearranged the papers so she didn’t dump coffee on them. As she did so, her eyes fell on the scribbled sheet of paper Helga had written the DNA company name on for Amara. And her eyes widened. “Whoa. Does that say—” She snatched it up. “State Historic Preservation Office. This was Helga’s note?”
Amara was barely paying attention. “She wrote it for me, yes.”
“But was it her paper or someone else’s?”
“I think she took it right out of her purse,” Amara said, finally looking up. “Why?”
“Because this is the place that asked Izzy to stop the construction.”
Amara stared at her. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“That’s odd. Why did she want to halt the construction?”
“I guess no one knows but her. And maybe Sarah,” Stan murmured. Although she had a hunch. “Can I keep this note?”
“Sure.” Amara was already back to the DNA. “This is so wild,” she said. “I can’t believe I can find family members by swabbing spit on a Q-tip and playing online.”
Stan chuckled. “I think it’s probably more complicated than that. So, what’d you get?”
“Hang on, trying to figure out this website. This is actually kind of cool.” She turned the tablet around so Stan could see the screen. “I don’t really know the difference between Y-DNA and mtDNA.”
“mtDNA is mitochondrial, I think. It was highlighted on the report. And you can look at that specifically.” Stan pointed.
“Again. So smart.” Amara tapped the icon and scanned the easiest column to read—the one with names. “Most recent match. Carmen Feliciano. Born 1925. No date of death.” She looked at Stan. “Is this my relative?”
“Must be. Recognize the name?”
“No, not even sure if it’s male or female.” Amara sighed.
“Let me see.” Stan took the tablet back and perused the site. “Look. That name is under family finder, too. According to this, you have some shared DNA, which makes you somewhere between fourth and remote cousins with this person. And”—she handed the device back triumphantly—“there’s an E-mail Your Relative button.”
