Going Through the Notions (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

by Price, Cate

  “Um, Tony, did you ever check into that estate company that contacted Jimmy?”

  Serrano’s tanned fingers flexed on the steering wheel. “I searched for other items they’ve sold, for anything that would stand out as an unusual item better handled with the bigger auction houses. There was one table that Angus sold for them a few months ago, and I thought I was on to something, but I checked with Christie’s, and it reached close to what they estimated it should bring. I’ve checked with other police departments, and no one has any wind of anything like this in the area. If it exists, it’s a very small operation.”

  “And what about the gambling ring? Did Jimmy owe anybody money?”

  Serrano shook his head. “Not according to the guys who were there at the game that night. They all swear they had nothing to do with Jimmy’s death. And no reason to kill him.”

  “Any of them own guns? Do you have any idea who might have tried to shoot me?”

  “Well, Ramsbottom, of course. And the Perkins boys go hunting all the time. Sounds like even the old lady was packing.”

  I remembered Angus’s story about the grandmother shooting one of his friends in her pumpkin patch.

  “The thing is, the guys you saw inside that building were all still sitting there when we picked them up. They say that no one left at any time. And it’s not like they had a chance to coordinate their stories.”

  I gasped. “Except for Bobby. He was outside. No one would have known when he came and went.”

  The one who had seemed so much nicer than his brother.

  Serrano glanced at me. “And Bobby doesn’t have an alibi for the night of Jimmy’s murder either. He dropped Tom Perkins off after the pub and went home alone. Apparently there’s some woman Tom sees in Sheepville.”

  I resisted the urge to say eeuw.

  “She’s married. They get together when her old man’s out of town. She was reluctant to admit it at first, but our boy Tom drove the bus over her as fast as you like to save himself.”

  “But what’s Bobby’s motivation?”

  Serrano grinned. “Hey, I’m supposed to ask those kinds of questions.”

  I smiled back. In the waning sunlight, his eyes were deep blue smoke.

  “In a small town like this, everything’s connected. It’s like a big fricking spiderweb touching everyone, and it’s easy to get on each other’s nerves.”

  “True enough.”

  The cruiser swung onto Grist Mill Road. “Wonder if there’s some long-ago feud we don’t know about,” Serrano said. “Know of any kind of connection with Jimmy and Bobby, or Bobby to Reenie?”

  “No. But I have my sources.” I’d ask Martha.

  He frowned. “This case strikes me as a crime of passion.”

  “Passion for a woman, passion for the arts, what?”

  “You’re thinking about Tague. He’s a little off, but I don’t get the killer vibe from him. He probably doesn’t weigh much more than you, Daisy, no offense. No way could he have handled a murder weapon like that barn beam.”

  As we drove up to the house, Joe was standing on the front step, his arms crossed. Like a father waiting for his errant teenager to come home after a date.

  “Good luck. Talk to you later,” Serrano murmured as I got out of the police car.

  I waved as he pulled away, and then I walked past Joe into the house. I refused to get into a screaming match out on the street.

  “You promised, Daisy! You promised not to get involved anymore.” The disappointment in Joe’s eyes was worse than his anger.

  “You know what,” I said, keeping my voice as calm as possible, “this has nothing to do with Angus and the murder investigation. I wasn’t in any danger. I was just giving the pen to Fiona before she went back to New York.”

  “What pen?”

  Oops.

  “Well, I sort of found one buried in the farmyard. Actually Jasper dug it up. I think the killer must have dropped it, and I didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t trust Ramsbottom.”

  “And you don’t trust me? Why the hell couldn’t you talk to me about it?” Joe exhaled, as if summoning up the last of his patience. “I’m your husband. We’re supposed to share everything. The good and the bad.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, there is one more thing . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I think the car needs a new alternator.”

  “That I can fix. The rest of it? Who knows?” Joe shook his head at me. “I guess I’ve always been a bit jealous of Angus, truth be told, and now it looks as though you have a new boyfriend.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I gasped in disbelief at this insanely jealous remark until I saw the teasing glint in his eye.

  “Come on upstairs with me, Daisy Buchanan.” Joe took my hand and pulled me with him toward the stairs. “Obviously I need to remind you why you married me. Again.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The next morning, Saturday, Joe called George Hildebrand and asked him to pick up our car and take it to his garage.

  I stuffed the trunk of Sarah’s Volkswagen Beetle and most of the backseat with the produce for the farm stand, and the items she and I had cleaned out of our basement. I’d have to sit with a box on my lap, and Sarah would somehow have to squeeze into the back.

  No dogs were allowed at the fair, so I’d taken Jasper for a good walk earlier and he would have the run of the kitchen today. Fingers crossed. He was in his favorite spot, sprawled out on the cool tiled floor in the pantry. At this time of the morning, the temperature was still in the low sixties, but the day promised to be a hot one.

  We drove up to the auction grounds. White tents were spread out across the grass, and with the sun rising over the horizon, it looked like some kind of magical encampment.

  Precision Rentals had dropped off the tables, tents, and chairs yesterday. The entrants for the various contests were also required to bring in their items for judging the day before.

  Martha came over to my side of the car and gave me a map of the fairgrounds. I recognized Cee Cee’s penmanship and talent for design.

  “This looks amazing already,” I told her, reaching up and giving her as much of a hug as I could around her gigantic straw hat. Martha was wearing sensible flats today, and a flowing summer dress.

  She smiled in weary satisfaction. “We have a long day ahead of us, but it should come together nicely.”

  From the map, Joe quickly found the farm stand, dropped Sarah and me off with the produce, and then drove to the flea market area to unload the rest of our stuff.

  Some trucks with trailers were already arriving, holding the ponies for the kiddie rides and the animals for the petting zoo. Sarah grabbed her tote bag of walkie-talkies and headed over to the admission booth to direct them where to park. The plan was to fill the paved lot first and then an area to the right, which had already been roped off and designated for extra parking. From Sheepville Pike came the unmistakable rumble of a fire engine, and soon it pulled slowly onto the grass near the auction house. Martha must have made arrangements for the kids to have their pictures taken on it. She’d thought of everything.

  My farm stand was made up of three trestle tables arranged in a U-shape with a canopy overhead. I arranged our fruits and vegetables on one table, and the soaps, candles, and pots of honey from the lavender farm on another. Debby and Cee Cee walked up with a cart laden with the donated birdhouses, jams, jellies, and chutney.

  “Wherever did you get that cart? It’s a brilliant idea!” I exclaimed.

  “It’s from the library. I asked if I could borrow it for the weekend,” Debby said. “I’m going to help you today, and Cee Cee is doing face painting for the kids.”

  “Another great idea. I can’t get over how fantastic everything looks.”

  Cee Cee nodded. “Martha’s incredible. It’s like she was destined for this.”

  By 8:30 a.m., we were set up, and the fair wasn’t scheduled to open until 10 a.m., so Debby stayed at the farm stand whi
le I took a walk to see where I could help out.

  Liz Gallagher’s kids were already bouncing around at the lemonade stand. I passed the antique John Deere tractors on display, and the area where the sheep-shearing demonstration would take place. Dottie’s knitting ladies had a table set up with their handmade baby blankets and scarves for sale. I knew we’d make money there.

  At the flea market, there were a few tables full of bric-a-brac, but the cars were the star of the show, all backed in with trunk lids open, making a huge semicircle. Patsy was in charge, and as soon as she saw me, Claire rushed over and grabbed my hand.

  “Daisy, I won first prize for my painting. Come see!”

  I let myself be dragged over to the exhibit tents. As we walked toward the corner where the junior artwork was displayed, we passed the baking contest entries, with a mouthwatering selection of apple, peach, cherry, rhubarb, strawberry, and blackberry pies. The winner was a double-crust nectarine raspberry.

  Claire’s painting was also adorned with the coveted blue ribbon.

  “Congratulations.” I put my arm around her.

  She beamed up at me. “And I won ten dollars!”

  The painting showed a magnificent house out in the country, with horses grazing peacefully nearby, three apple trees in the orchard, and a dog running up to the front door.

  “This is the house I want Mommy to buy for us someday.”

  “It’s beautiful, Claire.” The house also looked like it cost the best part of a million dollars, but I didn’t point that out.

  “The second place ribbon is red, third is yellow, and honorable mentions are white. You also get seven dollars for second place and five dollars for third,” she informed me. “Guess honorable mention means you only get the ribbon.” Claire wrinkled her nose.

  “And the satisfaction of knowing you tried and you did your best.” The teacher in me couldn’t resist a life lesson whenever I could impart one.

  “I know, Daisy,” she said, but I could tell she was glad she’d earned her first place ribbon.

  After we had sufficiently admired her painting, we walked around hand in hand, and marveled at the gorgeous mixed flower arrangements and perfect specimens of strawberries, carrots, fresh eggs, and corn arranged on white paper plates.

  I was especially interested in the needlework contest with the quilt wall hangings and exquisite embroidery. It was comforting to know that the ancient arts were still surviving, even in this digital age. I often thought that the reason knitting and crocheting were suddenly popular again was because they were a welcome escape for busy professionals from the constant buzz of instant communication.

  Chickens and rabbits in cages that had been brought in that morning were being judged as we walked by. I waved to Ruth, who was accompanying the judges and taking notes.

  As we came out of the tents, Cyril was driving around with trash and recycling containers on his truck, dropping them at strategic places, together with large drums of water for the animals. The petting zoo and pony ride with two docile-looking ponies were in place and waiting for youthful customers. I guessed that patch of grass on the auction grounds would be well fertilized by the time this was all over.

  I brought Claire back to her mom, where the flea marketers were ready for action. On my way to the farm stand, I passed the band members setting up. Chris Paxson was helping them hook up the sound equipment.

  “Dude, this is so early for us,” one of them moaned to Chris. “Actually I’m not sure if it’s like really early or really late.”

  “I’ll get you some coffee,” I promised. Near the auction building, they were testing the microphone for announcements at the first aid booth. Inside, Betty was working full speed in the snack bar to keep up with the demand for caffeine from the vendors.

  I came out with a paper tray holding six cups of steaming coffee. Even though it was well before 10 a.m., people were already arriving, some of them bringing their own lawn chairs, ready for a big day out. I could just about see Sarah at the entrance, and even from this distance, the confidence in her movements and her command over the situation were apparent.

  I handed the coffee to a grateful band and hurried back to Debby at the farm stand. People were picking up produce and jams and handing over money.

  Martha’s voice boomed over the sound system. “Good morning, everyone! I’d like to welcome you to the First Annual Sheepville Country Fair! As you know, proceeds from today’s activities will go towards a fund for the Kratz children. Enjoy yourselves today. Let the festivities commence!”

  The whine of an electric guitar tuning up split the air.

  I glanced over to where Reenie, eyes bright, stood with her kids, each clutching one of her hands.

  I thought back to that first Sunday when I’d gone to visit her, and Reenie had insisted on giving me fresh eggs, even though she was so desperately poor. I’d sworn to myself that day that I’d find a way to help. My scalp tingled with the realization of how I’d made good on that promise. And then some, with the assistance of my amazing friends and neighbors.

  The band roared into action, and soon there were kids dancing in the grass. Teenage girls hung out in front of the stage, giggling and making eyes at the lead singer.

  Debby and I packaged up candles and birdhouses and stuffed cash into our shoe box as fast as we could go. As the day wore on, the tantalizing smell of barbecue wafted through the air, not to mention that of cinnamon rolls, spicy fries, funnel cake, and apple fritters.

  My stomach growled. There was a plethora of fresh healthy fruits and vegetables in front of us, but what I really craved was a succulent rib that had been stewing in marinade overnight and was now slowly basting on the grill.

  Martha came up with a plate covered in aluminum foil.

  “And what to my wondering eyes doth appear?” Debby murmured. “Is that what I think it is?” She peeled back the foil to reveal a rack of crusty barbecued ribs.

  “Martha, did I ever tell you I love you?” I said.

  “Yes, now hand over the cash.” Not only was Martha keeping us fed, but she was making one of her periodic trips around to collect the money and make change if we needed it. “Eleanor says that we’re well over twenty thousand dollars at this point.”

  “Oh my God, that’s fantastic,” Debby said.

  “Mmmf,” I agreed through a mouthful of juicy, savory meat.

  Martha handed me a pile of napkins out of the pocket of her dress. “It’s such a success, there’s talk about making this an annual event. We could pick a different charity each year.”

  I saw that she’d appropriated one of Sarah’s walkie-talkies. It buzzed now with some indecipherable babble.

  Martha pressed the talk button. “Roger, copy that, over and out.”

  “Do you know what they just said?” I demanded.

  “Not a clue, but this is so much fun.”

  Later in the afternoon, Sarah strolled over to the farm stand. “How’s it going, Mom?”

  “Great. We’re almost sold out here.”

  “Daddy is having the time of his life at the tractor pull. Did you see that guy with the llamas?”

  I shook my head. “No, he must have set up after I got here.”

  “He has some kind of exotic farm off Grist Mill Road with ostriches, llamas, and peacocks, stuff like that. Says he often rents out his place for modeling shoots. One of them took a dislike to Martha, though.”

  Sarah shook her head, puffed up her small chest, and cleared her throat. “‘Good God. That beast just spit at me!’” she declared in a wicked imitation of Martha.

  I laughed, even though I shouldn’t have.

  Sarah grinned. “Speaking of shooting, I sent those photos I took of the Kratz kids and the farm to a friend who has a stock photography business. He loved them and wants more.” Her walkie-talkie buzzed again. “See ya later.”

  So now Sarah had also found a way to help Jimmy’s family out with a little extra income.

  I glanced up at the
powder blue sky. Not a cloud on the horizon.

  “Debby, would you be okay here for a few minutes by yourself?”

  “Sure, Daisy.”

  I found Reenie and her kids at the face-painting table. Cee Cee was putting the finishing touches to a bumblebee on the girl’s cheek, while her brother hid behind Cee Cee.

  Reenie smiled. It seemed like she looked younger and more beautiful every time I saw her. “This is all so amazing, Daisy,” she said, shaking her head. “Thank you again for everything you’re doing for us. I’ll never, ever be able to tell you how grateful I am.”

  I smiled. “My pleasure.”

  Martha sailed over to us. “Hey, kids, don’t forget the ice cream–eating contest. Do you want to give it a go?”

  Cee Cee glanced over her shoulder at the little boy, who shook his head but mustered a shy smile. “Maybe we could just get a cone?” she suggested. He nodded, and a dimple appeared in his soft cheek.

  “Walk with me?” Martha offered, and I nodded and fell into step beside her.

  Tony Z was busy cutting hair and belting out “La donna è mobile” from Verdi’s opera Rigoletto. He was an inch or so shorter than me, but the voice that came out of him was gigantic, with no need for a microphone. Farther on, a woodworking demonstration was under way, and then we came to Sweet Mabel’s ice cream booth.

  Martha ordered a waffle cone with butter pecan, and I selected a sugar cone laden with mint chocolate chip.

  “So how come you didn’t enter the baking contest, Martha? I would have thought you were a shoo-in.”

  She sniffed. “Well, I would have won, but I didn’t want people to say it was rigged.”

  We stopped to watch the goat races, which was where I decided to pump her for the lowdown on what the heck was going on with Cyril.

  She shrugged. “He’s an interesting man and I’m enjoying getting to know him.”

  “Okay.” I licked my ice cream cone and waited.

  She flipped up the brim of her straw hat. “Oh, Daisy, I don’t know. It’s kind of like looking at a deep lagoon and being intrigued by it, but you don’t want to dive right in. There might be something lurking underneath that you’d hit your head on. Better to slide slowly into that cool water.”