by Carol Schaal
Her country chic living area showed no signs of change. I looked out all the windows, could still see the stakes in the ground on the eastern yard. I took several pictures of the knickknacks on the bookcase and desk, then peered at the drawers of the pine desk. Several YouTube videos had prepared me for DIY lockpicking, but despite my unsanctioned visit to Sarah’s house, picking a lock was a line I wasn’t willing to cross. So when the top left drawer opened at my pull, I gave Eliot a thumbs-up.
As Eliot continued his own journey of exploration, pushing his nose into my purse, I carefully removed the papers from the drawer. Just as I placed them on the desktop, the phone on the desk rang. I gasped and jumped backward, stumbling to the floor in my fright.
I lay on my side on the sisal carpet, taking deep breaths, trying to get my heart rate under control. Eliot walked over and sniffed around my face, giving me unwanted kisses. The phone rang several times, then I heard Sarah’s voice, asking the caller to leave a message. An electronic voice informed Sarah that her prescription was ready for pick-up.
I breathed a sigh of relief, scratched Eliot behind his ears, and stood up again. “Keep them in the same order,” I muttered to myself as I sat before the stack on the desk.
The answer to my curiosity wasn’t hard to find. The first few papers were all marked with the logo and address of a company called TowerSolutions. Sarah, who constantly complained about the lack of cell service at the farmhouse, had leased space on the farm’s property for a cell tower. That explained the stakes she’d previously told me were for a new well. I wasn’t sure why she was so secretive and saw no real reason for her to be. The property was in her name, and she wasn’t doing anything illegal. Good for her.
I flipped through the remaining stack, careful to align the papers. The remainder all involved her work as executor of her mom’s estate, a thankless but necessary chore.
Opening the desk’s middle drawer gave me access to the remaining drawers, and I checked all of those, too. One drawer held a ticket from Sarah’s visit to the Ryman auditorium in Nashville. She had attended a concert on Sunday night. I recalled how guilty she said she had felt upon discovering that she had been enjoying herself while her mother was alone and dying.
My final find was a list of franchise opportunities available in the Nashville area. Here, finally, was the true reason for her trip, and it wasn’t to attend a concert at the Ryman. Sarah had visited several businesses in central Tennessee. Her days had been taken up with exploring business opportunities, not visiting bars and listening to country music hopefuls.
After scrolling through the places and times of her visits, I also realized I was holding her rock-solid alibi in my hands. Sarah had been too busy to sneak in a long drive back to Alleton, kill her mother, and return to Nashville. She had no doubt shared her alibi with Maccini but did not want others to know what she was doing on her trip.
And I was holding the answer to another worry Frank continually warned me about. Sarah didn’t want Bathing Beauty, I finally realized. Like me in Tampa, she wanted to get the hell out of town, create a new life for herself. But she wasn’t leaving me in the lurch. At this moment, she was training Tiffany and Cassandra in details of the store’s operations.
I closed my eyes in shame. Sarah was not a killer, and she wasn’t trying to regain control of her mother’s store. She was a friend, and it was about time I started treating her like one.
Eliot bumped my leg, reminding me that I had spent way too much time in the house. I replaced all the papers and, after one last, careful look around the room, turned and left.
25
The skies were clear when I drove away, and I started to turn into the parking lot for the all-day breakfast place, then swerved back onto the road at the last minute. No sense announcing my presence on the roadway leading to Sarah’s house. Instead, I stopped at the drug store, antique mall, and the printer, where I picked up the signs and papers announcing the grand re-opening of Bathing Beauty. Sweet smells emanating from the coffee shop next door called my name, and I devoured a blueberry scone as the tension caused by my trespassing drained from my body.
The quiet click of people busy on their laptops kept me company in the homey shop as I stirred honey into my tea and thought about what I had just discovered. First, Sarah had not been responsible for her mother’s death. Second, Sarah had taken advantage of the quarter-acre lot her father had given to her before his death to make some money. I didn’t know why that was a secret or why she had not leased the land a few years ago, and I couldn’t figure out a way to ask without revealing that I had scrutinized her private papers. Third, it appeared to me that Sarah had realized her mother would never make her a full partner in Bathing Beauty and had decided to forge her own path.
Last, and the question I had been reluctant to ask before, covered my relationship with Sarah. I thought we had developed the start of a friendship or could at least be co-workers who didn’t keep secrets from each other. My prying made it clear she did not trust me. And why should she? I had invaded her privacy, although I hoped she would never discover my snooping. I had not shared information about my past with her, and she must have known I was keeping something secret. Worst of all, I had been the one to discover her mother’s body.
If I were Sarah, I wouldn’t trust me either.
* * *
Tiffany, Cassandra, and Sarah, each dressed in casual clothes as if they were about to clean the basement, were wrapping up the training session when I arrived. I showed them the posters for the grand re-opening, less than two weeks away.
“I don’t have a sense of early February crowds,” I said to the threesome. “Any idea of how busy we might be?”
Sarah shrugged her shoulders. “So much depends on the forecast. Local B&Bs say their bookings are decent, considering the season. No big storms are moving, are supposed to be coming our way, but winter isn’t near done with us yet.”
“Maybe the free food and coupons and giveaways will help,” Cassandra said. “People love free stuff. Frank and Justin always put out cookies, but half the time I was the one who ate them if it was a slow day.” She leaned sideways and pinched her muffin top. “The perils of retail!”
Tiffany pointed a finger at Cassandra. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have stopped by the gallery and helped you out!”
“So how did today’s session go?” I asked as I fixed myself some hot cider.
Sarah stood up and headed for the coffeemaker. “It, I think it went great,” she said, then turned back and looked at her trainees. “What did you two think?”
Cassandra let out a big sigh. “Sales at Waves End are different. Most of the art sales are for bigger amounts, so I didn’t have to be fast and deal with a lot of customers. I need to get some more practice at all this.”
“You’re good with the products,” Sarah said. “I would have bought one from you. And Tiffany, you’re great with the sales paperwork but need more understanding of the merchandise. I’ll send some product descriptions home with you.
“All in all, it was a good day. One more session later this week and I think, I believe we can make a go of this.”
Our new clerks collected their coats, and when Cassandra gave me a quick hug goodbye, I whispered, “See you tomorrow.” She nodded, turned, and left.
Once they were gone, I gave Sarah a quizzical look. “Will they be ready or were you just being nice?”
“It doesn’t hurt to give people a boost,” she said, “but, but yeah, they’ll be fine. Tiffany only has big box store check-out experience, so she, she needs to learn one-on-one customer care, but she and Cassandra are personable. That’s a, it’s a big help.”
We looked again at the grand re-opening poster.
“Don’t be upset if it’s not a huge success at the start,” Sarah said. “Winter’s not the best time of year for what we sell. You need to hang in there. It will work out okay.”
“You’re a gem, Sarah,” I said, and I saw her blush with
gratitude while I felt a wave of shame.
26
Cassandra had just opened Waves End when I walked in the door on Tuesday. She had added a fake fur purple boa to dress up her black and white ensemble, no doubt an attempt to go with the artistic vibe of the gallery. I handed her one of the Bathing Beauty grand re-opening posters, my cover for being at the gallery.
“When they return, ask Frank and Justin if they’ll post it in the window,” I said. “And I know giving me access to their living area seems wrong, but if we can figure out who the culprit is, we’ll be better able to address the situation. And I promise I won’t get overly snoopy.”
That was a lie, but Cassandra didn’t have to know that. Being devious, unearthing secrets, sneaking into the homes of friends, all those actions I found repellent, made me wonder what I had become. It was not a welcome thought. But neither was being arrested for murder.
“If you find any pills in their studio, what are you going to do?” Cassandra asked, breaking into my reverie. “You can’t let them know you pried.”
I thought for a few seconds. “If it’s true one of them has a problem, I’ll have a quiet talk with Frank and Justin about behavior changes I’ve noticed. Don’t worry. We’ll both keep this day a secret.”
Cassandra stared at the ring of keys in her hand, then slowly handed them over. I headed up the stairs to the gallery owners’ apartment. Once inside, I went to their bedroom, an area I’d never seen before. Unlike the primary color scheme they used in the main living area, here the artists chose a more restful charcoal, white, and dark brown to go with the large chalkboard that covered the wall at the head of their bed. Much as I wanted to check out the doodles scribbled on the board, I forced myself to stick with my plan and walked over to the closet.
It was easy to figure whose side of the closet was whose. Frank’s held a selection of aprons and white dress shirts, Justin’s a selection of long-sleeved T-shirts in muted colors, hoodies, leather jackets and his favorite designer jeans.
The pocket of one of Frank’s winter coats, one I’d seen him wear before, did yield one item of interest, a packet containing something called naloxone. I took my cell phone out of my purse and did a Google search for the product. It was, I learned, a prescription medicine for use in an opioid emergency and consisted of an auto-injection system. The auto-injector was placed against the patient’s outer thigh and pressed. It released a drug intended to keep the one who had overdosed breathing until medical help arrived.
Unfortunately, I didn’t know if Frank carried the emergency treatment for himself or for Justin. But it was a telling find.
I moved from the closet to a dresser and carefully went through the drawers, then checked the bathroom cabinet. No stash of hidden drugs.
Their studio was located up a small flight of stairs leading off the loft’s main living quarters. A key on the ring Cassandra gave me worked, and I entered the space, not sure what I’d find there. Frank and Justin were artists, but both said they went into gallery ownership because selling their own artwork didn’t offer a decent living.
If it had been a sunny day, the room’s skylight and large windows would have made the surroundings bright. Even with that day’s clouds, the place looked large and luminous. I walked over and browsed through a series of unframed miniatures propped against one wall. Frank’s work, small paintings of scenes from nature. He had a fondness for showing mushrooms in their natural habitats, peeking out from tree roots and hiding in leaf-strewn areas. The mushrooms made me think of the death of Dennis. I traced my index finger over one of the darker scenes, where a mushroom grew from a rotting log, and the layers of oil paint felt alive with menace.
On the other hand, introvert Justin favored bursts of color with minimal backgrounds. My lack of knowledge about art meant I didn’t know how to judge their work, but it was fun to see projects the gallery owners had never publicly shared.
Again, I could find nothing hidden, even though I ran my fingers over the frames stacked up around the room. My last hope was a three-door, gray metal filing cabinet in the corner. Its drawers were unlocked, I was glad to learn.
And still feeling like a shameful snoop, I paged through files labeled “wills” and “taxes” and “legal records.” Two “medical” files caught my eye, one for Frank and one for Justin. I pulled them from the drawer.
Justin’s file told me what I was looking for. About 10 months ago he had been given opioids for the pain of a severe back injury. The file didn’t reveal the cause of the injury, but the pharmacy statements showed he had been on opioids for eight months.
The prescription apparently had ended two months ago. I guessed that Justin’s reliance on the pills had not.
A peek at my phone told me I’d been in Frank and Justin’s apartment for about 30 minutes. I had found what I needed. It was time to clear out.
I locked the studio door, and as I came to the bottom of the studio stairs, I heard voices and heavy footsteps. It sounded like two people were bound for the apartment. Damn. I turned the corner into the apartment’s living area, glanced around, and scurried to the horseshoe-shaped bar in the corner. I ducked under the lift gate and kneeled against the interior wall of the bar.
“How long will the water be off?” I heard Cassandra ask.
“Gotta see the problem,” a rough male voice answered. “Maybe not long.”
The lower section of the bar consisted of two open shelves, one holding booze, the other a row of cookbooks. I peered through the liquor bottles but couldn’t see the kitchen area.
“Okay, well good luck. I’ll be in the gallery downstairs if you need me,” Cassandra said.
The apartment grew quiet, then I heard metallic sounds, accompanied by whistling. Great. I could only hope the unseen worker was right, it would be a quick job.
To keep boredom and nerves at bay, I sat back and looked at the row of cookbooks on the shelf. Their spines faced away from me, so I took one out, looked at its front cover, then replaced it before checking out the next one. As long as the workman stayed in the kitchen, I felt relatively safe from discovery.
Frank’s cookbooks, for I assumed they were his, showcased his interest in cooking concepts, along with the works of such well-known chefs as Julia Child, James Beard, and Alice Waters.
While the whistling and banging continued in the next room my attention was caught by a smaller cookbook that focused on hiding vegetables in food. I opened it to a bookmarked page featuring a recipe for Beet Brownies. Someone, Frank maybe, had scrawled “Healthy. High in potassium” on the page.
I gasped, then quickly peeked through the gap in the cookbooks, afraid the plumber had heard me. But the whistling went on. I read through the recipe and the chef’s note that everyone she shared the brownies with had loved them and had no idea they held a secret ingredient.
I closed the book, slotted it back into the shelf, and leaned against the bar. I tried to picture the food available at Bernice’s wake. Orange drink, appetizers, Frank’s signature spinach cheese squares, a few desserts. I recalled eating something chocolate, but the event was too far in the past for me to recall the food with any certainty. And maybe the brownies were a treat for Evie. I closed my eyes, resting my head in my hands. Justin stealing drugs and Frank cooking up treats laden with potassium. Would life ever make sense again?
* * *
Cassandra was alone in the gallery when I came down from Frank and Justin’s apartment after I heard the plumber leave. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw me. “I am so sorry,” she said. “I had no idea that workman was coming. Scared me silly.”
“You and me both,” I said, and handed her back the key ring.
“Thank goodness I had a spare set of keys,” she said, then raised her eyebrows. “Did you find anything?”
Her question jolted me. My mind was on the recipe I had discovered; I’d almost forgotten about what I was looking for originally.
“You were right,” I finally said, wrenching
my thoughts from beet brownies. “It’s Justin. But Frank knows about it. He carries around an emergency injection treatment to be used in case of an overdose.”
Cassandra clutched her boa tighter around her shoulders and shook her head. “Oh, dear, now what? And should we say something?”
“You give it some thought, and I’ll do the same. We can talk about it later, include Sarah in the discussion. But I need to get out of here. I’ll see you in a few days.”
I walked back to Bathing Beauty, shivering in the cold air and thinking about my two days of detecting. I was not any closer to figuring out who might have killed Bernice and Dennis, but I had done a shameful job of invading my friends’ privacy. Would anyone still call me a friend?
27
That afternoon Sarah had stopped in at several downtown stores, asking their proprietors if they would display our poster in a front window. I finished inputting some prices and was ready to leave when Sarah came back from her assignment.
“Success,” she declared. Almost all of the shop owners said they would display our grand re-opening poster. It was a show of how the Alleton merchants helped each other out.
I glanced at the time. “What do you think about joining me at my place for pizza?” I asked. “I’ll order now and swing by Sam’s take-out on the way there.
Sarah’s eyes lit up. “We can check the last of the invoices and relax. What, what a good idea.”
I had another idea. I was going to come clean with Sarah about my background. I was not, however, going to confess about my break-in. She would see that as unforgivable. She’d be right.
