“Not definitely,” Miss May said. “But it's possible. Can you think of anyone who would have wanted Reginald dead?”
“Sure,” I said. “He was almost as awful as his wife. But if someone murdered Reginald, I bet it was the same person who poisoned Linda’s candy apple. Maybe it was one of the townspeople Linda and Reginald ticked off?”
Miss May shook her head. “Staging a suicide isn't the action of an annoyed townsperson. It's planned. Not impulsive.”
“So you think it was someone from out of town?”
“Or someone in Pine Grove who had a good reason to kill.”
“And you agree that the same person killed both Turtles.”
Miss May sighed. “I don't know, Chels. We need more information.”
“What if the person who killed Reginald was after all that life insurance money he got after Linda's death?” I asked.
“The only person who would have a right to the money in the event of Reginald's death would be their son. And didn't Linda say that he's studying overseas?”
I nodded. “She did say that. Probably worth confirming?"
“His name was German, right?"
“Germany,” I corrected. “So what's our theory right now? What do we know?”
Miss May grated some more chocolate onto her drink, and then mine. “Two theories. Number one: Reginald killed Linda and then felt so bad, he committed suicide.”
“Number two?”
“The same person who killed Linda also killed Reginald. The killer was motivated by something primal. Greed, jealousy, envy, revenge. And whoever it is, he or she is still out there, running free.”
I gulped down a sip of chocolate. “That's a scary way to say it.” I sighed. “So what do we do now? Do you think the cops will let KP out? If they think Reginald killed Linda?"
Miss May shook her head. “If we have doubts about the suicide note, the cops do too. They’re going to do some more digging before they let KP off the hook.”
"That's so annoying," I said.
"Annoying but true," Miss May said. “We need to stay focused on solving this case. That's the only way we're going to help KP.”
“OK,” I said. "So what do we do first?"
Miss May tipped her mug back to get the very last sip. Then she set the mug on the counter with a clank.
"We find out if Reginald's death was really a suicide."
19
Teeter Totter, See-Saw
AFTER A FEW MORE MINUTES of talking, Miss May asked for some “thinking space,” and I was happy to oblige. There was so much going on. Linda's murder was unsolved. Reginald had committed suicide or been murdered himself. KP was still behind bars and in serious danger of missing his flight to Honolulu. I needed some room to think too. So I went out to see my old friend See-Saw, hoping she might help me find the clarity I desired.
It was around 9 PM when I trekked out to the barn. The night was unsettling. A chorus of crickets serenaded me from the dewy grass. An invisible owl hooted from a perch high in the dark trees. A low fog loitered among the shrubbery. The whole place seemed to whisper as I walked, and I didn't like it at all.
As I entered the barn, I spotted See-Saw neck-deep in a big bucket of onions and apples. I assumed Miss May had come out to feed See-Saw recently because the bucket still had a lot of food left. I didn’t want to interrupt See-Saw’s dinner with a bunch of murder-chatter, so I slipped into the stall, sat down, and waited until she finished.
Watching See-Saw eat, a sense of stillness settled in my forehead and trickled down into my chest. Horses, with their placid eyes and soft demeanors, had always calmed me. Even though See-Saw was tiny, her presence was huge. And she had all the power to soothe me that a Clydesdale would.
Once See-Saw got close to the bottom of the bucket, I made a little small talk. “How about this weather?” “Seen any good movies lately?” “Those apples look good. Are they good? Are the onions nice and sweet?”
See-Saw kept eating, which clearly meant, “Yes, these apples and onions are freakin’ delicious, please shut up so I can eat.” When the food was finally polished off, See-Saw looked up at me. I suspect she was hoping for more apples and/or onions, but instead I started a conversation.
Over the course of the next half-hour, I reviewed the details of the case with See-Saw. I told her about Reginald and paraphrased his erudite note. I recounted the scene, and the haphazard renovations in Petunia’s house. And I told her about the Turtles’ son, and how he was an orphan. “I guess he and I have that in common, now,” I said. “Parentless too soon.”
For some reason, at that moment, I remembered how funny my dad looked whenever he wore a suit. His suits had never fit him quite right, and he’d rarely put one on. I thought about how he would have looked at my wedding, then I remembered that my wedding had been...incomplete. I felt a guilty sense of gladness that my dad hadn’t gotten all dressed up for nothing. Then my thoughts meandered to Mike and his repeated attempts at contact.
“Have I told you how Mike keeps calling me?” I asked See-Saw. See-Saw snorted. “I know,” I said. “I should just pick up. I should talk to him. But I don't want to.”
See-Saw shoved her face back into her apple bucket and licked up the juices. She didn’t have time for my pointless boy drama.
“I'll call him back after we solve these murders,” I said. “That's good, right? Don't you think? That would be a step forward?”
See-Saw continued licking the dirty bucket. “OK. Fine. I'll change the subject.”
I looked around the barn, trying to think of something else for us to talk about. And that's when I noticed a spool of rope hung along a nearby gate.
The rope had been tied together with a crude knot. I assumed Miss May must have tied it after KP went to jail. KP had been a military man, and he would never stand for such sloppy rope work. Especially when it came to his best friend, See-Saw.
I stood up and gave the knot a gentle tug. It came apart in my hands without much coercing. And that was when I had a lightbulb of understanding.
“The knot!” I shouted.
See-Saw whinnied. My mind whinnied right along with her. Reginald’s knot had been loose and wonky. Not at all secure. Maybe Reginald hadn’t served in the military like KP had — Reginald didn’t strike me as a wartime Turtle — but his ties had always been knotted with perfect double Windsors. Reginald had been a man who clearly cared about details. Plus, he had mentioned — repeatedly — that he owned three sailboats. Didn't sailboat guys have an obsessive knowledge of knots?
I turned back to See-Saw. “Reginald would never have tied such a bad knot. Not if he really wanted to...succeed.”
Can horses shrug? If so, then that’s how See-Saw responded.
“No,” I said. “You don’t understand. This is major. If Reginald didn't tie that knot, then he definitely didn't kill himself.”
See-Saw nibbled at her haunch, still unimpressed by my revelation. But nothing could take the wind out of my proverbial sails.
But how could I prove that Reginald’s knot was imperfect?
“The pictures! I took pictures of the scene.”
I whipped my phone out of my pocket and unlocked it. There, in the photos, was an image of Reginald hanging from the ceiling fan. I didn’t want to look, but I had to. So I zoomed in.
As gruesome as it was, I felt a thrill of satisfaction when I saw the knot. I was right! The noose had been tied with what looked like the knot on a little kid’s scuffed up basketball shoes. Or on a Christmas gift wrapped with haste.
Reginald had been a serious man, and he took serious matters seriously. He wouldn't have rushed something like that knot. Besides, the knot in the photo was so loose I doubted it would’ve held Reginald’s weight.
“See-Saw! What if someone killed Reginald and then tied the knot? What if hanging wasn't even his cause of death?”
See-Saw remained indifferent. But I knew my discovery was big. And Miss May needed to be informed.
I SPRINTED BACK TOWARD the farmhouse. Then I stopped to walk. After about 100 feet I ran again, but that time it was more of a jog. Sure, I had just had an exciting breakthrough. But that didn't mean that all of a sudden I could run a five-minute mile. Or a five-minute anything.
When I got back up to the house, I stopped to catch my breath, then I hurried up the stairs and pounded on Miss May's door.
“Yes?” Miss May called out, an edge in her voice.
“I had a breakthrough! Open up.”
I could hear Miss May’s grudging steps as she plodded toward the door. It creaked open and Miss May stood there, with her hands on her hips. She was wearing a long nightgown with a wide variety of apples on it, red and green and gold. I hadn't seen her that nightgown for years, but I remembered having given it to her when I was a teenager. Miss May had never been the easiest person to shop for. I never knew what to get her for holidays, but one year she had hinted that she wanted a t-shirt with apples on it. I had latched onto her suggestion, and every year since then I had bought her apple-themed attire. At this point, I knew she could never possibly wear all the apple garb I’d gifted her, but it was tradition, and we both liked it.
“What kind of breakthrough? I’m sorry, but I can’t hear about Mike right now.”
“This has nothing to do with Mike,” I said. Then I added defensively, “But what if it did? You’re done with Mike duty? I can’t rely on See-Saw for all my advice, you know. She’s smart, but she’s no Miss May.”
Miss May smirked. “We can talk about it at some point. But you know how I feel. I’m not the one you need to talk to.” She meant Mike.
“Can I just tell you my breakthrough already?”
Miss May fanned open her palms, like “What are you waiting for?” and I launched into the revelation I had had about Reginald's knot.
At first, Miss May was skeptical. But I showed her the photos, and I reminded her of Reginald’s sailing history and his affinity for Windsors, and yada yada yada. Eventually, Miss May got just as riled up as I was.
She paced. “Do you realize what this means?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It means Reginald's suicide was definitely faked. And KP couldn’t have killed him! We've got to tell Wayne.”
“Chelsea! We are not involving the police in this investigation. Not now, and maybe not ever. I know you have a thing with Wayne...” Do not! “But the PGPD has proven largely incompetent and unwilling to cooperate.”
I pushed my hair off my forehead. “So what does this mean then? What do we do now?”
“It means we can focus our investigation. If Reginald was definitely murdered, we can assume that Reginald and Linda were killed by the same person. Is there anyone we can think of who had motive to kill both Turtles?”
I sat down on the edge of Miss May's bed. The comforter had a big apple on it. That particular piece of apple kitsch was a gift from Miss May to herself. She had bought it ages ago, when the bakeshop at the orchard had really started to take off. The blanket was a reminder of her success. And it reminded me to concentrate on the million-dollar question.
“I can't think of anyone who would have wanted them both dead,” I said. “Linda was much more hateful than him. And once she was gone, he seemed to really lighten up.”
“Reginald wasn't quite likable either,” Miss May said. “Together, they could have made some serious enemies.”
“Maybe it was someone from out of town,” I said. “An art dealer from Manhattan who they angered. A friend from a fancy cheese club, where they ate cheese every Sunday until they felt sick. A turtleneck-wearing novelist who they joined twice monthly for a dinner of snails and flower petals?”
“Chelsea,” Miss May said. “I get it. They were snobs. But I don't think they were murdered by a snail-eating fromager. I think they were murdered by someone right here in town.”
“That’s a new revelation,” I said. “Who?”
Miss May sat on the bed beside me. “That's the question. But I refuse to believe it's a coincidence that they happened to get killed after moving here. I think they got killed because they moved here. Settling in Pine Grove was the catalyst for their deaths.”
I rubbed my knees, which had been throbbing since my hundred-meter dash up to the farmhouse. As I rubbed, I looked around the room. I hadn’t spent much time in Miss May's master suite since moving back to Pine Grove. She often referred to that room as her sanctuary, and she didn't love intruders. I wasn’t exactly an intruder, but I wasn’t exactly welcome company either. Everyone needs privacy, I reflected. So much of Miss May’s home was part of a public space. All she wanted was this one room.
But it’s such a nice room. Apple comforter. Apple curtains. Apple wallpaper. It was a lot of apple stuff, but it made so much sense in that room. As a kid, I had snuck into Miss May’s room sometimes when she was out working. I loved all the little details of her space. Especially the door handles. One year for Christmas, KP had made her wooden doorknobs shaped like apples and installed them for her. Miss May had insisted that the little oak apples were “too much” and that she was going to seem like “a crazy apple lady.” But we could all tell that she loved the doorknobs. Sometimes little touches like that really made a house feel like a home. And just like that, another lightbulb smacked me in the face.
“The doorknobs!” I yelled. I should really work on modulating my voice.
“Whoa, Chels,” Miss May said. “What about them?”
“Did you notice that doorknobs and fixtures were missing at Reginald's house?”
Miss May stood and tidied little odds and ends as we talked. “Yeah, I noticed. Part of the renovations, I assumed. What's your point?”
“Did you also notice how nice the fixtures were at Petunia's apartment? Way nicer than the stuff that comes standard at the typical 55 and older community.”
“That's a luxury resort community.” Miss May emphasized luxury as if the adjective explained Petunia’s antique fixtures. But it didn’t explain anything.
I stood up. “I worked on a place like that. Helped design the clubhouse. The word luxury refers to the amenities. The pool. The tennis courts. The farmhouse sink in the communal space. The apartments themselves were very basic. I made a few suggestions to the developers, but they insisted on ‘standardized’ finishes for every unit.”
“When did you work on an old folks’ home?” Miss May asked.
“Early on. It wasn’t a great job, but I needed the experience. Whatever, that’s not important!”
Miss May stopped tidying and looked at me. “So you think Petunia...What? Stole the fixtures from her own house and had them installed in her little old lady apartment?”
I shrugged. Would that really be so crazy?
“That's crazy, Chelsea. And I didn't see any signs of a break-in. Did you?”
“She could have climbed into the same window we did.”
Miss May shook her head. “Petunia has two titanium hips and only half a knee. I doubt she would have made it through any windows.”
I scratched my head. “OK. Well, what if she still had a key to the house? That's not out of the question. The Turtles might not have changed the locks. Or maybe they left a door open at some point.”
“I don't know,” Miss May said. “How do you even know that the fixtures in her apartment were from the Turtle’s house? Petunia loves nice things. Maybe she bought those knobs and fixtures at an antique shop or something.”
“I might be more inclined to believe that...if the Turtles had doorknobs on their doors. But the two things together? That's too much of a coincidence.”
Miss May nodded. “I suppose she could have entered with a key. But it's quite a stretch to go from stealing your own antique doorknobs to staging suicides and killing people in cold blood. Plus, do you think Petunia sat there and forged a suicide note? It was so...detailed. And dramatic. And it sounded a lot like Reginald had written it.”
“You agree that the knot proves Reginald was murdered, righ
t?” I didn’t wait for Miss May to answer. “So somebody wrote that note. Or they forced Reginald to write it before they killed him.”
“Petunia is almost a hundred years old. I just don’t know if she still has that much spunk left in her.”
“You’ve seen her play cards! She’s basically all spunk! And she never provided an alibi.”
“I guess I could see Petunia getting violent,” Miss May reasoned. “She did practically throttle Ethel over a stupid poker game, and that’s a lot less personal than a treasured family home.”
I stood up, feeling increasingly confident. “Exactly! Petunia is a real suspect.” I stepped toward the door and turned back to Miss May. “Let's get out of here.”
Miss May laughed. “I told you. You can't get into Washington Village this late at night.”
I groaned. “Not even for something like this? You know everyone. Bring them a pie! Charm them! It's not even 11 PM.”
Miss May shook her head. “They lock that place down like a fortress. We'll go in the morning.”
I sighed. “Fine. First thing tomorrow.” I watched as my aunt, a woman who had been a pillar of all things good and true and moral for my whole life, tucked herself into her covers. And suddenly, I had to ask her something. The words were out before I could reconsider. “Miss May...What did Wayne mean when he said you weren’t a lawyer anymore?”
Miss May scoffed. “That man doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Her answer was noncommittal, but her tone was definitive. She wasn’t going to elaborate, and there was no point in pressing her on the issue.
“OK,” I said. “See you in the morning.”
20
Fixture Fixation
THE NEXT MORNING WE left at 7 AM to go talk to Petunia. First, we checked in with the guard. He was friendly, as per usual. And we didn't even have to wake him up to get through the gate that time. He handed us the huge sign-in book and Miss May obediently scrawled her name on the skinny line provided for guests.
Candy Apple Killer Page 11
