Going Through the Notions (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

by Price, Cate

  Guess he learned how to write with color around.

  “You talked to him?” Sarah asked.

  “Yeah, we were hanging out at the pool together and we started chatting. Poor guy. His apartment building burned down to the ground last month. He lost everything.”

  “Everything?” My ears perked up. Including his Magical Black Widow pen?

  I had to remind myself that I wasn’t supposed to be getting involved in this investigation anymore. Although I might mention it to Serrano if I happened to run into him.

  I stood up and stretched. “Now that I’m in a food coma, I’m going to work. Thanks for breakfast, Sarah.”

  She rose and gave me a hard tight hug. Sometimes actions spoke louder than words.

  Joe waggled his finger at me. “Come straight home after work, Daisy.”

  I steeled myself against rolling my eyes.

  As I walked out of the house, I couldn’t explain why his comment irritated me so much, except that demands like that were almost guaranteed to make me want to rebel.

  Well, now I’d go see the biggest rebel of them all. I couldn’t wait to get Cyril’s take on the latest development in Angus’s case.

  Part of what looked like an old carnival ride had been dumped in the middle of the salvage yard, and I inspected one of the rocket ships with interest. The battered stainless steel ride car would make a neat addition to a kid’s playroom, or even provide fun décor at a restaurant or nightclub.

  “’Bout time.” Cyril flung the trailer door open. He spun on his heel and marched back inside.

  I walked in, holding my two cups of coffee, nudged the door shut with my elbow, and sat down opposite him at the kitchen table. Cyril quickly folded the newspaper and set it aside.

  “What the heck is that?” I asked, pointing at the orange mass on his plate. “What are you eating?”

  “Wazzit look like?” Cyril glared at me. “Baked beans on toast.”

  I watched in fascination as he ate his odd breakfast. “Did you meet the new detective in town yet?”

  “Aye up. Nice chap. Brought me coffee without being asked, too.”

  I shoved one of the cups toward him.

  “A real wick copper, that one. Nowt like Ramsbottom, who were as thick as two short planks.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I thought the gist of it was that Serrano was smarter than the detective currently sitting in jail.

  “Heard yer store was like summat out of the Wild Wild West on Saturday night.”

  I told him about visiting the Perkinses’ house, discovering the gambling ring, and the gunshots fired through the store window. I also confided how upset I was at not being able to visit Angus on Sunday.

  “Oh, it’s all right. I went to see ’im.”

  “You did?” Relief flooded through me. “I didn’t know you were on the visiting list.”

  “It weren’t none of yer beeswax.”

  I closed my eyes briefly and exhaled. “How was he?”

  “He’s not right in t’head no more.” Cyril shoveled a square of toast laden with beans into his mouth.

  I bit my lip. “Look, there’s something I want to show you, but please don’t tell anyone about it.”

  He waved at me impatiently with his fork, so I dug down into my pocketbook and pulled out the Parker Duofold Lucky Curve mandarin yellow pen.

  “I found this in the Kratzes’ farmyard. The killer must have dropped it when he ran off. I kept it because I didn’t trust Ramsbottom, and now I don’t know what to do with it.”

  “Sometimes when you don’t know what to do, it’s best to do nowt.” Cyril took the pen from me and held it up to the light. “Have you taken it apart yet?”

  “No! Why on earth would I do that?”

  “To see if there’s anything inside.”

  I gasped. As an aspiring detective, I was completely useless. What if the real value of the pens, beyond the obvious worth, was because they were being used to smuggle something? Like diamonds or drugs? Something that someone would kill to own?

  Cyril was wrestling with the nib, which didn’t seem to want to unscrew.

  “Be careful,” I said, wincing. “Don’t break it. Are you sure you can put it back together?”

  “Lass, that’s how I got started in this business. Because I liked to take things apart and see how they worked.”

  He grabbed a pair of rubber-tipped pliers out of the kitchen drawer.

  “Um, perhaps we should leave it alone and—”

  Cyril made a rocking action to pull the nib section from the barrel and finally the sections loosened. He spread the pieces out on the table and shook them one by one, but there was nothing inside.

  “The Lucky Curve feed is still intact, though,” he said. “That’s good.”

  “The Lucky Curve feed,” I repeated. “See, how do you know that? How do you have all these random skills? What did you do before you owned this junkyard?”

  He sighed. “I were a miner in Western Pennsylvania, Armstrong County. After I’d had enough of living like a mole and seeing men die young, I hitchhiked out this way. Met a guy in Reading who had a scrap yard. Repaired an old outboard motor for him and he gave me a job, fixing the broken stuff so he could sell it. Let me sleep in an abandoned trailer in back of the yard for free. Guess that’s why this place feels like home.”

  This had to be the longest speech Cyril Mackey had ever given. And now he was living here in Millbury and somehow involved with my best friend.

  I sipped my coffee and wondered how to bring up Martha, the pink elephant in the room.

  “A gentleman never discusses his affairs,” Cyril said primly, handing the rebuilt pen back to me.

  I could add mind reader to his list of talents.

  “Oh, so it’s an affair now, is it?” I smirked at him as I stood up to leave.

  He grimaced, and then his expression turned serious. “Watch tha step, lass. You didn’t make any friends busting up that poker game.”

  For some reason, Cyril’s warning frightened me more than anything.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Joe had contacted the owner of the plate glass shop where we’d originally purchased the windows, and soon after I opened the store, they called to say they would be coming by in the afternoon with a new piece of glass.

  I spent the next hour pulling everything out of the left front window, shaking it all out and vacuuming every inch of the store. I assembled some items in a convenient box to make a fresh display. It was Monday, after all. Time to change things up. Some vintage purses, a baby cradle made of mahogany, some loops of velvet and lace trim, and a floral uncut fabric panel all sat waiting for their moment onstage.

  Every five minutes I glanced at the phone. I really wanted to call Detective Serrano. Would that count as breaking my promise to Joe not to get involved anymore?

  The bell jangled over the door and Mary Willis came in, holding another large white bag.

  I’d sold the last collection she’d brought in for five hundred and fifty dollars. In spite of Patsy’s mockery of my charitable gesture, I’d still made fifty bucks on the deal.

  The linens she pulled out of the bag were even more exquisite than last time, including a pair of tambour lace curtains and several yards of Victorian velvet that made my mouth water. There was also an antique child’s christening gown that she said had been used for her late husband and all three of her children.

  “Don’t you want to keep this?” I swallowed against the lump in my throat.

  Mary shook her head firmly. “No. It actually feels good to clean out the house. To simplify my life. I’ve realized that I don’t need all this stuff. And if my kids don’t want it, it’ll be less for them to get rid of when I’m gone.”

  I looked into her eyes and saw the determination there, but also the peace.

  As I tallied up the value, I thought about “things” and what they could do for you. For some people, they provided comfort and memories, to others, they represen
ted financial security, to a collector, they gave satisfaction, but in some cases, they caused anxiety by creating too much clutter.

  At the bottom of the bag was the best part. A shirt box filled with doll’s clothes and dollhouse furniture. I gave her a very fair price. Not the sympathy price of before, but I could tell it was still much more than she’d expected.

  “There you go, Mary,” I said as I counted out seven crisp one-hundred-dollar bills from the register. “Pleasure doing business with you again.”

  “Thank you, Daisy,” she said, her cheeks pink. “You know, I’m going to spend part of this money paying off some of my debts, and then I’ve already decided I’m going to spend a little on a bus trip to visit my sister in Lancaster. I haven’t seen her in three years.”

  I smiled. “Sounds like you have it planned out well.”

  As she headed for the door, I had a brain wave. “Hey, Mary, if you come across anything in your house that you would donate to charity anyway, bring it to the country fair on Saturday. It’s for a good cause. A fund for the Kratz children.”

  “Oh yes, I heard about that. I’ll see what I can find.”

  After she left, I put a pot of coffee on. I couldn’t believe Martha and Eleanor hadn’t made an appearance yet.

  As the coffee finished brewing, Detective Serrano strode in. “Morning, Ms. Buchanan.”

  The man moved like a predatory cat, full of tightly coiled energy, sizzling and ready to explode. Today he wore a black leather jacket over a white shirt and jeans, and was even more devastatingly good-looking than I remembered. He glanced briefly at the displays, scanning everything like he’d done with our little group the other night, but he paused at the Welsh dresser. He ran his tanned hand across the top, tracing the grain of the wood. “You know, I remember seeing my grandfather chopping up a dresser like this for firewood once.”

  “Don’t tell me!” I stuck my fingers in my ears. I had no idea why some people couldn’t see the value of old things. It broke my heart to hear that kind of story. “Look, Detective Serrano—”

  “Call me Tony. Please. I stopped in because I sensed there was more you wanted to tell me on Saturday night, but perhaps were reluctant in front of the others.”

  Was I that easy to read? First Cyril, now the detective.

  I bit my lip. It was okay to give the police information, right? And it wasn’t as if I’d been looking for trouble. “Um—Tony—how about some coffee? This might take a while.”

  “Sounds great.”

  I filled two mugs and we sat at the bistro table.

  “So I gather you’re acquainted with the accused, Angus Backstead?” he said.

  “Yes. We’re good friends.” I took a deep breath and told him first about the oil change and proof that Angus didn’t drive back to Jimmy’s the next morning. Then about Ramsbottom’s vendetta against Angus and the long-ago fight with Hank Ramsbottom. About the rummage sale and the boots. And finally the story of the Perkins brothers and their resentment over their grandmother’s house sale.

  Serrano listened carefully, making notes from time to time.

  “Oh, and Reenie Kratz thought her husband had some kind of deal going on with a crooked estate company that sent the pens out here to auction for below market price.”

  Even though it seemed as though the estate company was a dead end, I was determined to tell him everything I could think of. “They’d pay a guy like Jimmy Kratz to place a bid, and then resell them afterwards for a much higher price.”

  “Sounds kinda kooky, but I’ll check it out. I went back to the crime scene yesterday and spoke to that Kratz woman. She seemed a little on edge. Couldn’t get much out of her.”

  Reenie had had enough of me poking around her place. I’m sure she didn’t appreciate the police coming back again either.

  “She’s had a lot to deal with lately,” I said. “Jimmy was abusive when he drank, and now he’s left her with nothing but debt.” I cleared my throat. “He was also cheating on her.”

  Serrano looked up at me. In the daylight his eyes were an even more intoxicating pale blue. Like a Siberian Husky, perhaps.

  I cleared my throat, trying not to stare. “Jimmy’s girlfriend is pregnant and doesn’t know who the father is. It could be Jimmy’s baby. Word is that she has an extremely jealous ex-boyfriend. I’ve never met him, but if he knew she was pregnant, or at least having an affair, it might have been a reason for him to bash Jimmy’s head in with a barn beam.”

  I sank back in the chair, exhausted.

  “A very thorough investigation. If I ever need an assistant, I know where to go.” He smiled at me. “And I owe you one. You’ve made me look pretty good with being able to shut down that gambling ring practically the minute I got into town.”

  I smiled back. Actually I was grinning from ear to ear. He was the first person to take me seriously with my findings, and for that, I could kiss him.

  Thinking about kissing the detective’s firm, masculine mouth made my internal temperature zoom to a dangerous level and I shifted in my chair.

  “Actually, the main reason I was brought down here, Ms. Buchanan, and this goes no further than this room, mind you, is that Frank Ramsbottom was under investigation anyway due to some questionable activities on his part.”

  I gasped.

  “He’s had lots of money to flash around recently. Too much. A new addition on his house, new cars, expensive jewelry for the wife. We weren’t sure what it was—extortion, gambling, selling drugs, what? Guess now we know.”

  Serrano tapped the pad with his pen. “And Ms. Buchanan—”

  “Oh, you can call me Daisy.”

  “Okay. Daisy. Now I’ve got some news for you. Good and bad. As I mentioned, I fast-tracked the results from the autopsy. It shows that Jimmy Kratz was killed around midnight, at which point your friend Angus was still passed out on his glider, in full view of numerous witnesses passing by on Sheepville Pike.”

  I stared at him for a moment, hardly daring to breathe. “Wait a minute. Does that mean Angus is off the hook?”

  He nodded.

  I bounced in my seat. “That’s fantastic news!” Now I really did want to kiss him.

  The detective held up a hand. “Hold on, there’s more. Don’t celebrate just yet. The bad news is that Angus Backstead finally had a physical for the first time in years, and the docs discovered a brain tumor, a meningioma, I believe it’s called.”

  “Oh, God. How bad is it? Will he be okay?”

  “Tough to say, but they think it’s benign and he should make a full recovery.”

  “I guess that would explain how confused Angus has been lately, and the bad headaches. He hardly knew what he’d eaten for breakfast, yet he could remember things from years past.” I was talking faster and faster in my excitement. “I know it’s serious, but it’s sort of a relief to finally find out what was wrong. Can I see him now?”

  Serrano shook his head. “He’s already at the hospital, undergoing prep. Surgery is first thing tomorrow.”

  There was a sudden commotion at the front door. Martha came in carrying a round cake tray, with Eleanor close behind. “Why, hello, Detective sir. What a pleasure to see you again.” She took the lid off with a flourish. “How about a piece of pineapple passion cake?”

  Eleanor winked at me. “Try saying that ten times fast.”

  Serrano accepted a plate with a huge piece of cake and dug in with relish. The man must work out like a fiend to keep that trim body with the amount of food he could pack away. Martha beamed at him.

  I gave them the good news about Angus.

  “I knew he was innocent all along,” Martha declared.

  I rolled my eyes. If I kept this up, I’d look like one of those vintage Kit-Cat Clocks.

  “What about the strange car that pulled up outside the auction house that morning?” Eleanor asked. “Everyone thought Angus had made some kind of handoff with the pens.”

  “Oh, we canvassed the neighbors again,” Serrano sa
id. “Turns out it was Fiona Adams in her Mercedes, asking about the auction and for directions to the bed-and-breakfast. She’s in the clear, too. She was at some charity event in New York the night before, and the driver took her there and back. They were nowhere near the crime scene.”

  He licked a clump of butter cream frosting off his fork while we all watched in rapt attention.

  “Well, I’ll keep you posted,” he said, standing up. “Let me know if you think of anything else. That cake was spectacular. Thanks, ladies.” He winked at Martha and walked out of the store.

  Martha stared after him, open-mouthed. “Good God,” she murmured. “I think my heart just stopped.”

  “Talk about encouraging stray cats,” Eleanor said in her best Mae West impression. She turned to Martha. “What do you put in those treats anyway—some kind of catnip for men?”

  “Like I said, I know what men like.” Martha’s gaze was still fixed on Serrano through the unbroken window as he got into his car. “And he’s a fine-looking specimen.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed.” Eleanor’s gaze was more speculative.

  I suddenly realized I’d forgotten to give him the pen. Maybe it was some kind of mental block on my part. Maybe I was holding on to it so I’d have something to give to Fiona after all was said and done, assuming the other pens were never found. It would be nice if she had some small reminder of her father. I’d rather give it to her than have it collecting dust in some evidence room at the police station.

  Later on that afternoon, the plate glass company came to fix the window. After they left, I stepped up onto the display area with the new items. I placed the baby cradle in first, then an arrangement of the vintage purses. A truck went by on Main Street, and standing exposed and a potential target in the front window suddenly spooked me so much I dropped the fabric panel and velvet trim and hopped down, leaving them where they fell.

  I called Betty, but she wasn’t home. I left a message saying what a relief it was to hear Angus was cleared of Jimmy’s murder. She must be at the hospital. At least she’d have no excuse not to go there, I thought bitterly, trying to let go of my resentment that she’d basically abandoned her husband throughout this whole ordeal.