by Price, Cate
“Jimmy was planning on fixing some of the rotted parts of the roof,” Reenie said.
I bent down and tried to lift the end of one, but could barely budge it an inch. “He must have been pretty strong.”
“No one knows that better than me. Who’s going to fix this place now?” She stared up at the ceiling in despair. Sunlight slanted through the gaps in the wooden wall, and dust motes danced in the air around her head.
“Angus was going to help with the repairs. He and Jimmy moved the wood in here.”
I drew in a deep breath. “So Angus’s fingerprints are probably on every single beam in this place?”
She nodded.
“Did you tell the police that?”
“They didn’t ask.”
I stifled a heavy sigh. And why hadn’t Angus thought to tell me that himself? Yes, his fingerprints would still be on the “murder weapon,” but it painted a much better picture that he’d handled all the beams anyway while helping Jimmy with the construction.
Reenie wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “I don’t know how I’ll pay the mortgage. Jimmy didn’t have any life insurance. I make a little money from selling the milk and fresh eggs from the chickens, but it’s not enough to live on.”
My heart went out to her. She had no money, her husband was a drunk, and now he was dead, leaving her with two young children to care for on her own. I decided right then and there that I’d find a way to help.
She stood up and carefully placed the pail of milk to one side. She washed and dried the cow’s udder again and let her out of the stanchion and back into the field.
I didn’t want to outstay my welcome, plus I had groceries sitting in the car. It didn’t feel too hot outside today, but I didn’t want to push my luck.
“Well, I’d better get going.”
“Hold on, Daisy. I have something for you.”
She dashed over to the henhouse and came back a minute later with a wooden basket full of brown speckled eggs.
“Oh, that’s very nice of you, Reenie, but I couldn’t take these. Or at least let me pay you for them.”
She held up a hand.
“You’re the only person in this whole freaking town who’s bothered to stop by and see how I’m doing. You’re a real nice lady. Not like the rest of those snobs.”
I swallowed a prickle of guilt. My motive for coming wasn’t so pure. Yes, I wanted to make sure she was okay, but I was also on the lookout for any clues that could help me clear Angus.
I saw her gaze flicker to the bags stashed in the backseat of the station wagon.
“Look, I’m going to visit Betty again tomorrow,” I said. “Can I pick you up something—is there anything you need?”
She shook her head. “You don’t have to do that.”
I opened my car door. The children appeared again as if by magic and peered at me from behind their mother, clutching at her thin dress.
Reenie ran her hand through her hair, making it stick up like tufts of thistledown.
“Actually, yeah, now that I think about it, I could use a carton of Marlboros and a six of Coors Light.”
I hoped I managed to keep my expression neutral. “Okay. Anything else? Anything for the kids?”
“Nah, they’re fine.”
As I pulled out of the driveway, my mind was already making a list for them anyway—some coloring books, crayons, games, and some fresh fruit and cereal.
The car hit a pothole and I groaned, hoping I hadn’t messed up the alignment.
I thought of how handy Joe was at our house, and for the umpteenth time in my life, of how lucky I was. Sometimes he didn’t say much, but his calm and reassuring presence was enough. I treasured him as carefully as any precious antique, which, he would laughingly say, he was one now.
The pale blue sky over the deserted country road was streaked with gray clouds tinged with pink, as if they were lit from above with a rose-colored spotlight. Like one of those Renaissance paintings with angels dancing in the heavens.
On the outer edge of the village of Millbury, I drove by the dead-end road leading to Cyril Mackey’s salvage yard with its eclectic collection of rusty garden gates, birdbaths, old Coca-Cola machines, and bicycles in various states of disrepair. A sign on the building in the back that was his office and also supposedly his home said, KEEP OUT. I thought it might be worthwhile to stop and chat with Cyril the next time he was open.
A few minutes later, I pulled up in front of our lovingly restored 1842 Greek Revival home with black shutters flanking its many windows. Six fluted Doric columns supported the triangular-shaped pedimented gable, and provided a grand porch that spanned the width of the house.
In the front yard, masses of yellow coreopsis, pink phlox, Jacob’s ladder, and purple Russian sage grew in glorious profusion behind a classic white picket fence.
We’d purchased the house almost thirty years ago for a vacation getaway. It had been a stretch at the time, but I was careful with our budget. We worked on it every chance we got, and rented it out for about ten years. When Joe, sick of the rat race, convinced me to take early retirement from teaching last year, we were able to pay off what was left of the mortgage.
It seemed as soon as one thing was fixed, though, something else broke. Like playing a never-ending game of Whac-A-Mole with a house. Greek Revivals were notorious for roofing problems because of the low pitch of the roof, and Joe always had some kind of project going on.
I grabbed as many bags of groceries as I could carry, opened the front door, and headed into the wide central hall. I sniffed the air appreciatively. One benefit of no restaurant in town, apart from the diner, was that Joe had become an excellent cook, and spoiled me with a gourmet meal every night.
The house was light and airy because of its twelve-foot-high ceilings and the six-over-six double-hung windows, some of them tall enough to literally step through onto the porch. I hurried past the living room with its grand proportions and original millwork, the dining room with its iron-fronted fireplace, and the double parlor divided by pocket doors.
In the cherry-paneled library was the old steamer trunk that we used as a coffee table. Joe and I had gone to the auction one night, and on impulse I placed a bid. The metal trunk turned out to be stuffed with all sorts of beads, fabrics, hand-embroidered bed and table linens, and sewing notions. It was the inspiration for the store.
I found Joe in the kitchen, which was the only part of the house we hadn’t renovated yet.
“Hello, my hero. Smells amazing in here. What are you making?”
Joe took the bags, set them down on the scarred butcher block table, and enfolded me in his big arms. I allowed myself a few moments to breathe, enjoying the feel of his body against mine before I peered over his shoulder.
“Oh, boy, crab cakes. My favorite.”
“Together with a salad of greens and herbs tossed with a champagne vinaigrette and a saffron rice pilaf. Will that please the lady?”
“Most definitely.” I grinned at him.
He still looked good. To me anyway. Of course, his hair had turned gray a few years ago, he was a little thicker around the middle, and he had his share of physical ailments, but he’d always been a well-built guy. Not bad for sixty-three. Reluctantly, I let go of him as he moved over to the stove to turn the heat down under the pan.
Joe went out to the car for the rest of the groceries, while I stocked the refrigerator and put the dry goods in the walk-in pantry. The delicate perfume of roses on the trellis drifted in through the kitchen window.
It was such a lovely evening that we decided to eat outside. Joe carried our dinner plates, and I brought a bottle of wine and two glasses.
On the flagstone patio, mismatched wicker chairs painted a pastel green sat around a long iron table. Six-inch pots of basil, thyme, and oregano formed a fragrant centerpiece, and wisteria clambering above us on the pergola provided a welcome shade. Orange nasturtiums spilled over the sides of a fluted stone urn in one corner.
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I took a bite of my crab cake, murmuring with pleasure at the crisp crust and succulent perfectly seasoned crabmeat. Joe poured the wine, and I filled him in on the day’s events as we ate.
“Poor Angus. I keep thinking about him sitting in that jail all alone. Betty was so traumatized she says she’s not going back. I guess the visitations will be up to me now.”
“He’s been a good friend to us, Daisy. Remember the winter when the pipes burst?”
It was only a few years into our home ownership in Millbury. We were in New York, living paycheck to paycheck, and the renters had called in a panic. It was right before the end of the school term, I was knee-deep in grading papers, and Joe couldn’t take time away from some critical negotiations as representative for the electricians’ union. Joe and I had panicked a little ourselves. How would we handle things long distance, and how would we carry both mortgages if the renters decided to pull up stakes and move out?
Angus was a powerhouse. He’d coordinated everything, even done a lot of the cleanup himself, and saved our home, plus our rental income. He’d also helped Joe with numerous other projects over the years. He always refused to take any monetary compensation, saying the only gift he ever needed was our friendship.
“Does Angus have a good lawyer?” Joe asked as he drizzled vinaigrette dressing over his salad greens.
I watched a fat bumblebee suckle on a yellow hibiscus. “Betty said they’re using Warren Zeigler. He’s been their family lawyer forever.”
“He probably needs a good criminal attorney. I could make some calls if you like.” Joe’s dark eyes regarded me steadily.
I stared at him, my throat suddenly tight. Even though I had just visited Angus in prison, a surreal experience to say the least, somehow this brought it home to me that the situation was real. Desperately real. It wasn’t some temporary misunderstanding. Angus wasn’t getting out of prison tomorrow or the next day. Heck, it was even possible he could be tried and convicted of a crime he didn’t commit.
“I’ll talk to Betty. But Joe, I’m really worried about him, regardless. He seems so confused. It’s like he was falling apart in front of my eyes.”
“Well, he did take a good conk on his head getting into that police car.”
“Oh, God, you’re right, I’d forgotten about that. But Betty seems to think it’s been going on for a while.”
“Then I hope it’s nothing serious.”
I thought of my boisterous linebacker-sized friend, always full of funny stories, with an encyclopedic knowledge of collectibles. Was all that lively intelligence to be lost to a devastating disease that would turn his brain to nothing more than a mass of useless spongy tissue?
*
“Early on Monday morning, before I opened the store, I headed over to the police station in Sheepville. I told the desk sergeant on duty at reception that I’d like to see the detective in charge of the investigation.
“You would, would you?”
“Yes, please.”
“You in, Frank?” The sergeant turned to a heavyset man in short shirtsleeves sitting at a desk behind him who was eating thick slabs of French toast, smothered in maple syrup, out of a Styrofoam container.
“Sure.” The detective pointed his plastic fork at me. “I know who you are. That lady from the sewing store, right?”
“Yes. I’m Daisy Buchanan. And you are?”
“Detective Ramsbottom,” he said, without bothering to get up. He stuffed a piece of sausage into his mouth.
“Your pal Angus isn’t doing himself any favors, you know.” His speech was muffled. “He can’t remember much. His mind seems to have blanked out about whacking Jimmy, too.”
I blew out a breath, feeling my blood pressure rocket. “Maybe he’s confused because of the bang to his head on the cruiser door. Maybe someone could argue a case for police brutality.”
He actually had the nerve to roll his eyes at me, and then he smiled, as if trying to be kind. “I know he’s your friend, but I also know he done it.”
“He did it.”
“What?”
“Sorry, I don’t mean that Angus did it. I mean that you used improper grammar.” Hey, I couldn’t help it. I was a schoolteacher for most of my life. Old habits die hard.
He licked his fingers one by one, then wiped them on his pants and ambled over to me.
I thanked God for small mercies when he didn’t offer to shake my hand.
“Look, Detective, I only stopped in because I wanted to let you know that Angus was helping Jimmy repair the barn. His fingerprints were on every single beam in that place. I’m also positive he didn’t go back to Jimmy’s the next morning. You have Angus Backstead locked up in jail, and meanwhile the real killer is running around somewhere scot-free.”
The detective’s wide smile faded. “And I’ll let you know that your pal Angus is a drunk, has a vicious temper, and it’s not the first time he’s been in trouble with the law. The investigation is continuing, but I’m positive that we have our man. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do . . .”
I restrained myself from asking if that included scarfing down more breakfast treats, and made a dignified exit. Time was running short and I raced back to Millbury to open Sometimes a Great Notion. The sky darkened with burgeoning gray clouds. A thunderstorm was threatened on the weather forecast, but I hoped it wouldn’t keep the customers away.
Not only had Angus helped with getting the store off the ground by giving me auction merchandise at cost, but he’d worked with Joe to fix the nineteenth-century storefront to accommodate present-day customers. Two big glass display windows jutted out onto the porch—a new addition to the original house.
The main shop was situated in what used to be the front parlor and living room, but the walls had been opened up between to make one space. I used the dining room as an office and prep area, and there was a kitchen and powder room in the back.
I walked in, turned on the stereo, and soon the sounds of 1940s jazz music wafted through the air.
An antique Mennonite star quilt hung on one wall with handwrought iron clamps, and on the facing wall were black and white photographs of Main Street from a hundred years ago, when the road was nothing but dirt. Actually, Millbury didn’t look a whole lot different today.
The huge ten-drawer seed counter, manufactured by the Walker Bin Company, was one of my most prized possessions. It had glass-fronted loading bins that pulled down and housed spools of unused French ribbons from the 1920s, a stack of Simplicity and McCall sewing patterns, piles of braided trim, and a collection of tortoiseshell hair combs.
I breathed in the faint familiar scent of lavender and furniture polish as I wandered through the store, gently arranging things.
A Welsh dresser stood with its drawers partially open, displaying vintage fabric remnants, unfinished quilt tops, and dresser scarves. In the center of the room, a collection of wooden crates stacked together were laden with other great finds, including a bolt of Irish linen dress fabric, still with the original label, a feed sack patchwork coverlet, and hand-embroidered place mats and napkins. I ran my fingers through a sea of glass beads in a lithographed tin doily keeper, and hoped these rescued treasures would go to a good home.
I’d barely set the coffeepot on to brew when Martha breezed through the front door, carrying a tray of her famous baked goodies.
“Good God, that doll gives me a funny turn every time I come in,” she said, as she always did, referring to my salvaged mannequin in the corner.
“It’s not a doll, it’s a mannequin,” I responded, as I always did.
I’d named her Alice, and she was decked out for the season in a Christian Dior pink brocade dress and jacket, looking a little like Jackie O, with white gloves and an antique parasol on her arm.
Martha set the tray down on top of the counter. “Crème Brûlée Cheesecake Squares. They’re quite delicious, if I do say so myself.”
Today, Martha’s buttercup yellow linen dress stretched
tightly across her bosom, which was fine, because her décolletage still looked pretty good. The problem was it stretched across the rest of her, too.
With her bright red hair, orange lipstick, and crimson fingernails, she looked as though you could stand in front of her and warm your hands on a cold winter’s day. The sight of her never failed to cheer me up.
My store had somehow become the hub for news, gossip, a good cup of coffee, and tasty treats. Martha claimed not to gossip, but she was actually my chief source of information. She was also a talented baker, and brought her creations into the store so she wouldn’t be tempted to eat them at home. She’d become a widow a few years ago. Some said, rather unkindly, that poor Teddy Bristol had dug his grave with his knife and fork.
The doorbell chimed, and Eleanor Reid stepped lightly into the store. Eleanor was one of my fellow store owners along Main Street. She ran a business called A Stitch Back in Time, where she restored vintage wedding gowns.
“Did you hear the news that Angus was arrested?” she asked us.
“News? News?” Martha placed her hands on her ample hips. “Where have you been, woman? That’s ancient history by now!”
Eleanor had a wiry flat-chested body, and from a distance she could be mistaken for a little old man. She wore her white hair cropped short, had sharp features, and wore black pants and a black shirt, regardless of the weather or season. For a business that dealt in romance, she was the unlikeliest purveyor, but she was an expert seamstress, and often a customer for my antique buttons, ribbon, and lace.
I told them about my visit with the uncooperative detective.
Martha popped one of the cheesecake squares into her mouth. “Well, that doesn’t surprise me. Frank Ramsbottom and Angus Backstead don’t get along. They’re bitter enemies, in fact, so I’m sure he’ll be content to go with the easy solution of pinning the murder charge on our favorite auctioneer.”
“Really? Bitter enemies?” I poured three mugs of coffee. “I can’t believe someone as friendly and generous as Angus could have any enemies at all.”
