Going Through the Notions (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

by Price, Cate

  Later that afternoon, when the sun was shining once more through the front windows, I was greeted by a welcome “Yo!”

  “Patsy!” I threw my eyeglasses down on the sorting table and rushed to meet her. “Congratulations on doing such a great job at the auction on Saturday. I know I told you at the time, but I’m saying it again for good measure.”

  She grinned. “Thanks again for recommending me. I couldn’t believe how much money I made. Sure beats waitressing.”

  “No one else could have pulled it off the way you did. Although I’m sorry you missed Martha’s party.”

  “Ah, it’s okay. The kid and I had one all by ourselves. We built a fort in the basement with chairs and blankets, made popcorn, and crawled in there and talked for hours. I wouldn’t have missed that for the world.”

  I smiled, thinking about Claire, and put on a pot of coffee. I’d better get ready. Visitors usually seemed to come in waves.

  Patsy leaned on the ten-drawer seed counter and watched me work. “Daisy, I heard something that I think you ought to know. Whispers that Jimmy Kratz was involved in some serious gambling. And that he got in over his head.”

  “Really?” I stared at her, the coffee filter dangling from my fingers.

  Did Jimmy make up the whole crooked estate company story for his wife because he didn’t want her to know how deeply in trouble he really was?

  Martha burst in, barely shutting the door behind her. “You are not going to believe this. I was just in Sheepville and saw Reenie Kratz and Betty Backstead chatting on the street. Chatting! I must say, I’m not sure I’d be so chummy with the wife of the person who supposedly murdered my husband.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Okay, for one thing, Angus didn’t kill Jimmy, which Reenie knows as well as you or me, and for another, it wouldn’t be Betty’s fault even if he did.”

  Martha sniffed. “I know. Just think it’s weird, that’s all.”

  I took a deep breath and said the serenity prayer. The smell of roasted coffee beans percolated through the store as the machine dripped hot liquid into the pot. The doorbell jangled as Eleanor arrived. The universe must have told her the coffee was ready.

  I leaned on the counter facing Patsy. “So maybe his plan was to sell the pens, pay his debts, and get himself off the hook, but the gambling ring took him out first.”

  “Back up the truck!” Martha held up a plump hand. “Whose plan? What ring? What are you going on about now?”

  “Jimmy Kratz,” I explained to her. “Sounds like he had a gambling problem. That may have been why he was killed.”

  “Yeah? And you think there’s some big scary Mafia-type syndicate running an operation around here?”

  We all looked out of the front windows at the sleepy, bucolic village basking in the golden afternoon sunshine. Apart from the paved road, it could have been a scene from the early 1900s. The quiet street mocked me in its innocence.

  “Too much late-night television, Daisy?” Eleanor drew her fingers idly through the candy, making the hard pieces clink against the cut glass. She glanced at the bowl in disdain. “Is it my imagination, or do we get less treats than we used to?”

  “Funny you should mention that,” I said as I poured four cups of coffee, the memory of the coveted toffee bars at Cyril’s fresh in my mind. “I saw Cyril Mackey in the barber shop this morning, getting a haircut.”

  I waited a moment for the collective gasp. “He was wearing a jacket that I’m sure I’ve seen somewhere before.” It wasn’t long before I saw the comprehension dawn on Eleanor’s face.

  She turned on Martha. “You gave Teddy’s clothes away to the church rummage sale at the beginning of June, right?”

  Martha looked flushed. “Hell’s bells. It’s so damn hot in here. Don’t you have the air-conditioning on, Daisy?”

  I was wearing a cardigan over my T-shirt and I could clearly see the goose bumps on Eleanor’s slender arms.

  We all waited.

  Martha slammed a hand down on the counter. “All right, give me a break. The man needed something better to wear than those awful old rags.”

  Eleanor wasn’t afraid of a little confrontation. “No one’s arguing about that. I’m talking about the treats.”

  Martha glared at her. “I have a perfect right to distribute my treats as I see fit.”

  Things got kind of tense until Patsy spoke up. “Hey, yeah, so like Betty said, she’s going to use me for all the auctions from now on. Maybe I’ll be able to afford to buy a place for me and Claire someday instead of living down in my sister’s basement. And if Betty hires me full-time, I could quit the diner.”

  “That’s great!” Martha beamed at her.

  I chose my words carefully. “Yes, it’s wonderful to have plans, Patsy, but what about when Angus comes back? He’ll want to take over the bid calling again, I’m sure.”

  I didn’t miss the shared glances.

  Pity mixed with kindness.

  “Anyone else going to the preliminary hearing tomorrow?” I asked.

  Patsy cleared her throat. “Daisy, sweetheart, mostly everyone in town has accepted the fact by now that Angus could be the murderer.”

  Everyone except you, that is. Her unspoken words hung in the air.

  “You don’t have to tell me that,” I snapped. “Even his wife doesn’t go to visit him or call him anymore.” I turned on Eleanor. “Are you in this majority, too?”

  Eleanor shrugged. “I’m sorry, Daisy, but he was the last person to see Jimmy alive. He has a history of fighting, he was drunk, and his fingerprints are all over the murder weapon. And no other hard facts have come to light.”

  Martha squeezed my hand. “Something else you might not know yet. One of the Backsteads’ neighbors saw a strange car pull up in front of the auction house that Saturday morning. People are saying that Angus quickly got rid of the pens to lose the evidence.”

  “Sometimes youse just gots to face facts.” Patsy brushed her palms together briskly as if to beat off any crumbs from our nonexistent treats.

  “What does Joe say?” Eleanor asked.

  I gripped the counter. “Joe is usually supportive of anything I do, but he wants me to let it go, too. But I don’t see how you can desert someone who was a good friend to all of us. How can you be so ready to think the worst of him?”

  “I’ll go with you to the hearing, Daisy,” Martha said loyally.

  Eleanor drained the last of her coffee. “I would, but I have a reporter from Philadelphia Magazine coming out here tomorrow morning. They want to do a feature piece on me and my store.”

  “That’s awesome!” Patsy exclaimed.

  And with that, the conversation veered away from any further mention of Angus.

  *

  “I didn’t sleep well that night. A particularly gruesome nightmare woke me at 3 a.m. Someone had skewered Fiona Adams through the throat with a stainless steel fountain pen as big as a hunting spear. As her blood spurted over a length of vintage Irish linen, Ramsbottom grabbed Jasper, put the dog in the back of his patrol car, and drove away down River Road. I ran alongside the car screaming at him to stop until I couldn’t keep up anymore and watched in despair as the taillights disappeared into the darkness.

  I opened my eyes, gasping for breath until the familiar shapes of the bedroom furniture materialized and I heard Joe’s sleepy sigh at being disturbed. I fell back against the pillows, trying to calm my galloping heartbeat. It must have been because of everything that had happened lately that those feelings of terror and helplessness I’d thought were buried long ago had crawled back up to the surface.

  After two more hours of watching the red digital numbers on the alarm clock tick away one by one, I finally dozed off again around 5 a.m. When the alarm went off at 7 a.m., I dragged myself out of bed feeling as though I’d been run over by that same police cruiser.

  A long shower and several cups of coffee later, I was sitting in my car outside Martha’s house, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. The
sweltering humidity was back and my hair was still slightly damp because I’d only been able to stand so much additional heat from the blow dryer in the already steamy bathroom. I leaned forward and ruffled it in front of the air-conditioning vent in the car.

  Martha finally appeared, perfectly made up, wearing a lime green sundress, orange sandals, and a fantastic vintage necklace of tangerine ceramic flowers on a gold chain with wrapped orange glass pearls. We headed toward downtown Doylestown and the Bucks County Courthouse.

  To my surprise, we found a parking spot right on the street. I hurried through one of the brick archways looping along the sidewalk and up onto the wide promenade in front of the imposing circular glass building. Martha followed, panting for breath, and I waited impatiently at the top of a set of shallow steps.

  “Come on, Martha, I don’t want to miss anything.”

  “If you don’t slow down, you’ll be missing me. Permanently.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Come on.” I grabbed her hand and half towed her into the building.

  A small group of people had gathered outside the courtroom on the first floor where the hearing was scheduled to take place. There were a few older men who were auction regulars, a couple of Angus’s drinking buddies, and someone I barely recognized.

  Cyril Mackey.

  He looked years younger with the stylish haircut. He’d shaved, too, and the new clothes were a big improvement. He didn’t look half bad, come to think of it. The gray hair was cut to collar length, but now it was aging rock star rather than scruffy homeless person, and the tailored clothes enhanced what I was sure was an ex-military bearing.

  He sensed my appraisal and smirked at me, his eyes a dark green in the muted light of the hallway. “Look right posh, don’t I?”

  “Nice jacket.” I grinned at him.

  Martha gave him a regal nod, her chest still rising and falling with her efforts to keep up with me.

  “Mornin’,” Cyril muttered.

  If I wasn’t so anxious about Angus, it would have been cute, the way these two pretended to be so indifferent to each other.

  “Where is everybody?” I glanced at my watch. In spite of having to wait for Martha, it was still fifteen minutes before 9 a.m., the scheduled time for the hearing.

  “I thought Angus had lots of friends,” I whispered to her.

  Martha looked at me, her eyes full of compassion. “Oh, Daisy, you’re always so willing to believe the best in people.”

  She twisted the flowers on her necklace for a moment before she spoke again. “You see, country folk are bred to accept the hard parts of life along with the good. The deaths of animals, the loss of a farm, they expect the worst and hope for the best. The reality of human nature doesn’t shock them as much. And for the ones who are old enough to remember the Hank Ramsbottom story . . . well, it’s the nail in the coffin for Angus.”

  I blew out a breath. “But where’s Betty? I can’t believe she’s not here! And I can’t believe Ramsbottom isn’t here to gloat either.”

  Cyril frowned as he looked around. “Summat’s wrong.”

  I spied a clerk hurrying by and stepped in his way to halt him in his tracks.

  “Excuse me, is this the right room for the hearing for Angus Backstead?”

  He consulted a clipboard full of papers. “Backstead? Oh, it was canceled. His attorney waived the hearing.”

  “What?” I barely restrained myself from grabbing the front of his shirt. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sorry, please excuse me.” He scurried off down the hallway as I struggled to suck in enough air.

  Dimly I heard the murmurs of those behind me.

  I blinked to clear the black spots in front of my eyes. “Damn it. I knew I should have found a good criminal attorney for Angus.” My throat was so constricted I could hardly grind the words out.

  Cyril shook his head in dismay. “Aye up. Thought Angus were in trouble before. He’s really buggered now.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mackey.” Martha glared at him. “Good God, man. There are ladies present.”

  “Oh, Martha, he’s right!” I ran my hands through my hair. “Is Warren out of his tiny mind? What the hell was he thinking?”

  She squeezed her fingers together in a choking motion. “Let’s go see that boll weevil and shake some sense into him.”

  I ran out of the building, Martha hard on my heels. Down the hill from the courthouse on North Broad Street was a collection of Federal-style buildings called Lawyers Row. Warren Ziegler’s offices were located in an ornate brick-fronted building with an elegant black and gold carved sign hanging on the wall outside.

  “Good morning,” his receptionist greeted us. She sat at the far end of the room behind a mahogany desk and an expanse of oriental carpet.

  “Good morning,” I replied politely as we hurtled past, ignoring her squawks of protest, and straight into Warren’s bookshelf-lined office.

  He didn’t seem inordinately surprised to see us.

  “Just give me one good reason why,” I said, gasping for breath.

  Warren sighed softly and templed his small pale hands together. “It was not in Angus’s best interest to go through a hearing at this time.”

  “What in the hell kind of answer is that?” Martha demanded, striding up to his desk and towering over him.

  He blinked calmly behind his round spectacles. “I deemed it best to eliminate the rehashing of allegations without any new evidence to clear the defendant.”

  “Huh?” She turned to me, breathing heavily. “Daisy, what’s this bow-tied worm talking about?”

  Warren took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, showing a hint of weariness, or maybe he was just trying to block the blinding view of Martha’s décolletage.

  He looked directly at me, almost pleading. “We have nothing to refute with. It would simply be more bad publicity in the court of public opinion. If this goes to a jury trial, we’re going to need all the sympathetic jury members and character witnesses we can get.”

  Damn it, he was right. The number of people who still believed Angus was innocent was growing alarmingly small.

  “And to warn you both, I might waive the arraignment, too. Perhaps a bench trial is our best hope in a case that offers little hope.”

  I nodded glumly. He didn’t have to spell it out. Obviously Warren had also talked to Angus lately and seen his fragile, confused state of mind.

  I’d been so sure that Warren had made some huge blunder. Now in his calm, measured way, he actually made some sense.

  “Perhaps by the time this comes to trial, you’ll have cracked the case, Ms. Buchanan.”

  I smiled wanly back at him.

  He straightened his bow tie a fraction. “At least we might get some concessions. Reduced jail time and the like.”

  I nodded to Martha, calling off my rabid dog, and we trailed out of his office and onto the street.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “You can leave me here. I need a mani and pedi after all that drama. They have the best salon up on East State Street. I’ll grab a cab back to Millbury.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, yes.” She waved her fingers at me. “I don’t plan on doing any more strenuous physical activity today, other than taking out my credit card.”

  Jeez. Martha seemed in a hurry to get rid of me. Maybe I’d pushed her a little too hard.

  Doylestown was a beautiful town, full of great stores and restaurants. It had become the county seat in 1813 and the resulting buildings clustered together along the walkable Main Street were an interesting mix of styles from late Federal to Colonial, Italianate, and Victorian. Residences with wooden decorative porches were set back from the street with mature trees shading the wide sidewalks. Black gas lamps held overflowing flower baskets.

  The courthouse was the only odd man out in the historic district, but it was set apart on its own triangular block at the top of the hill.

  There were the typical art galleries, antique and g
ift shops, but also contemporary high-end apparel and home furnishings stores. Quirky used bookshops and cafés snuggled in between only added to the charm. Even the Starbucks was tastefully housed in an old tavern.

  If I didn’t have to work, I’d have loved to stay and spend the day with Martha. I’d hung a sign on the door that Sometimes a Great Notion would open late today, but I needed to get back.

  Once in Millbury, I was heading for the store when Joe called and asked me to come and take Jasper off his hands. He sounded rattled.

  Hey, join the club.

  I had my second shock of the day when I saw the state of our kitchen.

  All the cabinets had been pulled off the walls. Countless haphazard piles of dishes and pots and pans were crammed together on the tiled floor of the adjoining sunporch, blocking the entrance to the room. Joe was sanding the uneven patches on the old kitchen floor and a fine dust lay over everything.

  It wasn’t how I would have organized it, of course. I’d have put the contents of the cabinets in covered boxes—labeled—with neat walkways in between. I’d need to rewash every single one of these dishes when he was done.

  God, what a disaster! How long was it going to be a mess like this?

  I mustered all the goodwill I could find. Joe was bare-chested and sweating from his hard work, and I could see he was on his last nerve, too.

  He’d hung some plastic sheeting at the kitchen doorway to stop dust traveling throughout the rest of the house. Guess I should be grateful for small mercies.

  Jasper was snuffling around, his paws and nose covered in sawdust, as he checked out the power tools lying on the floor.

  Joe grabbed the sander. “You can see why I need you to keep him out of my hair.”

  I deliberately kept my voice light. “Where’s Sarah this morning?”

  “She’s gone with Debby to Philadelphia to see that famous violinist—what’s his name?”

  “Robin Tague.”

  “That’s right. I guess he’s performing at the Kimmel Center, and there’s some kind of private reception afterwards. Sarah pulled some strings to get them an invitation, so Debby’s over the moon.”