by Liz Mugavero
That wouldn’t stop this hearty bunch, though. A little cold and snow never bothered them, especially when they were paying tribute to a loved one. The only sore spot would be the lack of newspaper coverage. Cyril was still being held at the police barracks. The Frog Ledge Holler, for the first time probably in a century or more, had ceased operations.
But not for long. Not if all went according to plan.
Stan had been up since two, running scenarios in her mind. At six, she called Pasquale’s mobile phone. The trooper answered on the first ring. Unlike Stan, she sounded like she’d already eaten a healthy breakfast and gone to the gym. Stan tried not to resent her for it.
“I need your help,” Stan said. “This morning. Can you come to my house at eight?”
“Your house? Why? What’s going on?” Pasquale asked.
“I’d rather tell you when you get here. But I need you to pick up Arthur Pierce and bring him when you come. Can you do that? Without your police car?”
“Pick up . . . why? You need to start talking, Stan.”
“I will. I promise. Please, just go get him? It’s the only way I can think to get him here. This is about Helga. It’s important, Jessie.”
“I’m a state trooper, not a taxi service,” Pasquale snapped.
“I understand that. But your position has more perks. So, will you do it?”
Jessie was silent, but her frustration was palpable over the phone line. “I swear to God, Stan, if you’re leading me on a wild-goose chase I’m going to throw you in a cell right next to Cyril Pierce.” And she hung up.
Stan smiled. Jessie and Arthur would be at her house by eight. She was certain of it.
Things were falling into place.
By seven, activity was ramping up across the street. Stan could hear the voices and shouts as people descended on the area to set up for the event. The entire day would be devoted to historical reenactments, speeches, tours of the historical buildings, and refreshments at each stop, all as a tribute to Helga. The War Office would be open for special tours, and the historical society would also be open. The museum would remain closed. Which was critical to her plan.
By the end of the day, they’d have more to add to the history books.
At seven forty-five, Stan put the dogs outside to play. Betty arrived a little before eight, looking like she hadn’t slept at all either. “So, what’s this big plan? I’m a little worried about this, Stan.”
“Don’t worry,” Stan said. “We’ll have support.”
The doorbell rang again. Stan said a silent thank you. “And there it is.” She pulled open the door. Jessie and Arthur Pierce stood on the porch. Pierce looked indifferent. Pasquale looked annoyed.
Betty’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Why are they . . . ?”
“Hush.” Stan motioned them in. “Good morning. Thanks for coming, both of you.”
“You didn’t really leave us a choice,” Pasquale said. “What’s all the cloak-and-dagger about?”
“Come in. I have coffee,” Stan said. “We’ll tell you everything.”
“Oh, boy,” Pasquale muttered.
“Sorry to get you up so early, Arthur,” Stan said.
Arthur looked different without a cigar hanging out of his mouth. Jessie must’ve forbade it in her vehicle. He shrugged. “It was all just a matter of time.”
Pasquale looked at him curiously. Seemed like they hadn’t had much conversation on the way over.
“I thought you said we couldn’t tell anyone,” Betty hissed as she followed Stan to the kitchen.
“I can hear you, Betty,” Pasquale said. “I’m right here.”
“She’s the police,” Stan said. “It’s okay to tell her.”
“This is how I get to spend my day off?” Pasquale asked the ceiling.
“Sorry,” Stan said, handing her a mug of coffee. “But you’ll thank us later. Arthur? Coffee?”
“Please,” he said, as if they were all gathering for a social occasion. “Black’s fine.”
“Which one of you knows Marty Thompson best? The guy with the hauling company?” Stan asked as she poured.
“I do,” Pasquale said. “I went to school with him.”
Stan wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, or if Jessie’s cheeks had turned slightly pink at the mention of Marty’s name. “Can you trust him?”
“Of course. What did Marty do?”
“He didn’t do anything. I need you to call him and tell him to call Dale Hatmaker. I need him to say he can pick up the pieces they want to get rid of at the museum. Today at one o’clock. And then I need him to drive his truck over and pretend he’s going to do that, but he’s really not. Can you do that? And ask him to let you know if Dale agrees?”
Pasquale narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on?”
“I have a hunch about who killed Helga. I think it was Carla Miller. But I need your help flushing her out today.”
Both Betty and Pasquale stared at her. Pasquale spoke first. “That’s a big accusation, Stan. You’re talking about the wife of a town councilman. And the victim’s daughter-in-law, for crying out loud. How, exactly, did you arrive at that conclusion?”
“Can you please call Marty, and then we’ll talk about it?”
Jessie sighed, muttered something about getting fired, and made the call. Marty answered right away and was happy to help. He promised to call Dale right away. Stan figured at least some of that was attributable to Jessie’s position. Five minutes later, Marty called back. Dale had agreed to meet him at one o’clock.
“Great. Thanks, Marty,” Jessie said. “I owe you.” She flushed and turned away. “We can talk about dinner sometime, sure.” She hung up and pocketed her phone, cop face squarely back in place. “Now. Talk.”
Stan turned to Arthur. “Arthur, are you going to help me tell this story? There’s a lot of parts I don’t know. That’s why I wanted you here.” She held her breath. Please don’t let him do the whole denial thing again. Jessie will kill me. Or arrest me.
Pierce looked at the ceiling, then around the room. Nutty, who had sauntered in to see what was happening, jumped on his lap and settled in, purring loudly. Pierce looked at him like he’d never seen a cat before. Just as Stan was about to get up and remove him, he started petting Nutty.
“I guess it’s time,” he said. “We wanted to do this anyway, Helga and I. Then everything went to hell in a handbasket.” He took a wheezy breath, still stroking Nutty. “Helga and I . . . a while back we decided it was time to clear the slate. We wanted to go public with the story of what happened to Felix Constantine.”
Betty’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? You . . . you knew all this time?”
“We’ve been walking around with the guilt for years. All of us. And, no, my son didn’t know about this,” he said to Pasquale. “Helga was gearing him up to write the story, but she hadn’t actually told him what the story was yet. He was interviewing her. On background.”
“The morning of her murder,” Pasquale said. “Is that why he was at the museum?”
“Yep.”
“See, he never told me that part,” Stan said. “He just told me he was in the vicinity, getting ready for the event.”
Pierce shrugged. “My son’s good at his job. He was gathering information. Who ratted him out?” he asked Pasquale.
“Gerry Ricci saw him leaving the museum,” Pasquale said. “He didn’t think anything of it until later. Had himself convinced Cyril had been involved. It was the only lead we had.” She looked at Stan. “I knew she had been murdered. The random ‘falling down the stairs’ story didn’t sit well with me.”
Stan looked at Betty. “I told you to talk to her earlier.”
“Can we get back to me and Helga?” Pierce demanded. “You dragged me out here at this hour, you should at least listen.”
“You’re absolutely right, Mr. Pierce,” Stan said. “I’m sorry. Please, go on.”
Pierce looked satisfied. “So Helga and I decide
d we would tell the story. Only problem was our friends. The ones still breathing. See, we’d made a pact that night. Never to talk about it unless we all agreed, or unless we were dead.” He smiled. “’Cept me, of course. I had to write about it. Course I couldn’t tell the whole thing, but I had to cover it. Anyway, all these years later, the rest of them didn’t agree.”
“Maeve,” Stan said.
“Maeve, Edgar.” He shook his head. “You think about it, it’s pretty amazing we got this far. That’s a lotta people carrying this around for a long time.”
“What about the one who vanished? Tommy Hendricks?” Stan asked.
Pierce nodded admiringly. “You did do your research.”
“And I read the story you left me in the book.” Stan met his eyes evenly until he lifted his chin in an acknowledgment.
“Yeah, I left the book. Since you were getting yourself all involved anyway, I figured you could use the facts. Tommy Hendricks died, too. Committed suicide a couple years after that. Helga and I knew about it, but we never spread it around. He’d moved to Florida and it just didn’t seem like something we wanted to broadcast.”
“Wait.” Jessie held up a hand. “Mr. Pierce, I don’t know what you’re about to tell us, but I would recommend you think very carefully about what you’re doing. You have no counsel present—”
Pierce frowned and waved her off. “I’m eighty-five years old. I’m dying anyway. You’re free to do what you want to me. The truth is, I killed Felix Constantine. It was all me. And I’d do it again tomorrow.”
Betty gasped, her hand flying to her throat.
Jessie rubbed her temples as if she suddenly suffered from a major headache. “Mr. Pierce, there is no statute of limitation on murder, you know.”
“Like I said,” Pierce said. “Do what you want.”
“Why?” Stan asked. “What happened that night?”
His gaze turned faraway, like he’d already gone back there. Or maybe he’d never left. “We almost got to tell the story to Carmen. Felix’s sister. Helga had befriended her, you know. We had it all set up. Then Helga died.” Pierce shook his head.
“Anyway, we snuck away from the big party that night. To our hangout.” He looked at Betty. “Alice had the keys. Felix tagged along. He’d set his sights on Helga. Partly because she was beautiful, and partly because he wanted to defeat his opponent before they got to the ring.”
“He wanted Tommy’s girl,” Stan said.
Pierce nodded slowly. “But Tommy was too drunk to notice. A few of us took the party outside to the parking lot. Didn’t wanna burn the place down smoking. A while later, I realized I hadn’t seen Helga. Or Felix. I went looking for her.” Unresolved anger flashed in Arthur’s eyes. “Found her in the library basement, trying to fight him off. He was drunk. Not listening to reason. Plus, he was a whole lot bigger than me. So I did what I had to do.” He looked at her, willing her to understand.
“I didn’t mean to kill him. Just grabbed the first thing I saw—one of the card catalogue drawers—and clocked him with it. Guess I hit him hard enough. Or in the right spot.”
“The D drawer,” Stan said. “Where Doyle lived.” She couldn’t imaging what Arthur had lived with over the years, from the incident itself to having to write about the murder he had committed day after day, week after week. What an extraordinary story. Stan wanted to hug him.
Arthur nodded. “Just happened that way. Fitting, all things considered.”
“Then what?” Stan asked. Jessie still hadn’t spoken, but she listened intently. Betty looked like she was about to pass out.
“When we realized he wasn’t gettin’ back up, we all sobered up pretty quickly and decided to just leave him there. Swore ourselves to secrecy.” Arthur shrugged. “Alice ‘found’ the body that Monday. The police talked to us—everyone knew we hung out there—but we covered our tracks. Frankly, no one cared that much. Like I said, he wasn’t a local. I don’t think a lotta effort went into it. But we never forgot.
“Helga never got over it. Neither did I, truth be told. So when she asked me to help her tell the story, I agreed. Hell, they’d just told me I’m gonna croak anyway.”
Silence descended over Stan’s kitchen as they all processed this information. Finally, Jessie spoke. “So how do we get from this to Carla Miller? I’m not following.”
“I think Helga was trying to find another way to tell the story without breaking her promise to her friends,” Stan said. “Right, Mr. Pierce? Isn’t that why she called Adrian Fox?”
Pierce nodded slowly. “Helga was spiteful,” he said with a smile. “One of the reasons I loved her.”
Loved her. Stan felt incredible sadness for Pierce. He’d loved Helga back then, and all these years later? And they’d been bound by this terrible secret. It must’ve been so lonely for both of them.
“She told Maeve and Edgar, fine, be difficult,” Pierce went on. “Promised them the story’d come out one way or another. So she thought about it and figured getting the ghost people in was the most public thing she could do. Plus, I think she really believed Felix haunted that place.” He sobered. “He haunted her, for sure.”
“And she told Don what she was doing, didn’t she?” Stan asked.
Pierce nodded. “Don didn’t like it either. But I don’t think Don killed his own mother.”
“Agreed. Carla, on the other hand . . .” Stan looked at Arthur Pierce. “She threatened you, didn’t she? When she came to your apartment?”
“Tried to,” Pierce said. “She didn’t scare me much. Didn’t have much to scare me with. My son’s already in trouble. He’s all I got. I doubt she scared Helga, either, until she shoved her down the stairs.”
“You know this for a fact?” Jessie asked. “She told you she pushed Helga?”
“The only thing I know for a fact is what I did all those years ago,” Pierce said. “But Mrs. Miller, well, she was adamant that she didn’t want this story to come out. It would kill us all, she said. Did she confess to me? No.”
“Did she threaten you with bodily harm?” Jessie asked.
“She told me she’d do whatever she had to do to keep our big mouths shut.” He shook his head. “Young ladies today have a lot of sass.”
Stan looked at Jessie. “She thinks she has a lot to lose. Her status. Her husband’s position in town. And she’s been pushing Hatmaker to get rid of the pieces from the old library. Including the card catalogue.”
“So what’s in the drawer?” Betty interrupted.
“Ain’t nothing in the drawer,” Pierce said. “But Constantine’s blood’s still on it.”
Betty sat back, stunned. “That’s why you’ve all been talking about this drawer for years?”
“We need to get the drawer. That’s why we need to pretend the pieces are being moved today,” Stan said to Jessie. “I guarantee you, Carla will show up once Dale calls her. To make sure it’s done. And then you can arrest her.”
“Me too, if ya need to,” Pierce said.
Pasquale sighed. “I think I need a new job. Or at least a new town.”
Chapter 41
The celebration began promptly at eleven with cannon fire. It nearly scared Stan out of her shoes as she walked across the street. Scruffy and Henry trotted along on either side of her, happy to be included. She planned to hand them off to Lorinda, offering their help for the library programs while she slipped away later. She’d left Benedict roaming the house to see how he and Nutty did together. If they could pass the test, he could stay. If not, she’d have to figure something else out. But today, things were looking up.
In more ways than one.
The Frog Ledge Marching Band had launched into the opening song. Stan couldn’t tell what it was. She could see a large crowd already gathered, singing along as they paid tribute to Helga. She led the dogs up the street and to the fringes of the crowd. Scruffy immediately announced her presence by wooing repeatedly until those nearest turned to look at her. Henry looked embarrassed.
“Sure.” Stan took it, hoping to slide it into her pocket, but the woman waited, still smiling. Stan took the hint and fixed it to her jacket.
“Lovely, dear. Enjoy the day.” The woman walked away with her basket, looking for her next victim.
Stan checked the crowd. There was Betty, wearing a purple coat and matching hat. Helga’s favorite color. She walked over and tapped her on the shoulder. “Everything looks great,” she said when Betty turned.
“Hi, Stan. It does,” she agreed, looking around. “Except for that god-awful pin.” She wrinkled her nose. “We’re going to have refreshments in the library all day. The dogs are welcome to go in, of course.”
“Thanks,” Stan said. She scanned the crowd. “Seen Hatmaker yet?”
Betty shook her head. “Not yet. Stan, are you sure—”
“Relax. Everything’s going to be fine. Pasquale has our back.”
“I hope so.” Betty sighed and looked around. “I haven’t seen Carla.”
“She’s around,” Stan said. “I’m sure of it. She wouldn’t miss the chance to be the star of the show.”
Twelve-fifteen. Almost showtime. Stan leaned against the refreshment table in the library and flipped through the day’s program. The proclamation and official ceremony for Helga was happening at twelve forty-five, which was perfect. Everyone would be occupied when Marty drove up at one. She’d seen Pasquale a few minutes ago. She wore street clothes and was engaged in a conversation with someone. Maybe another undercover cop? She took a sip of the Revolutionary Punch offered by a costumed character walking around with a tray. It tasted disgusting. Or it could be her nerves that made it off-putting. Her stomach was twisted up. This had to go off without a hitch or Jessie would kill her. And she’d look like a fool.
