by Maia Chance
“Have you, um, heard anything more from the police?” I asked Otis after I’d chewed, swallowed, and released more carb-triggered endorphins into my bloodstream.
“They brought me in for more questioning.”
“Are you serious? Why?”
“Well, they figured out the time of death and wanted to see if I had an alibi or not. The coroner examined the body, and it turns out that Mikey died between ten AM and one yesterday—hours before I got there. What he was doing at the shop at that time on a Sunday, I have no idea.” A flicker of something passed across Otis’s eyes.
He did have an idea what Mikey had been doing at the shop off-hours. But I didn’t feel super comfy about grilling him in front of the others.
“I was shopping at the mall in Lucerne with Grandma Bee at the time of Mikey’s death,” Otis said. “I take her once a month.”
“You’re such a nice grandson,” I said.
“Who said anything about nice? I love mall walking.” Otis chuckled. “So basically I have an airtight alibi—jeez, I can’t believe I’m talking about this kind of thing.”
“But that’s great news!” I said. Was Otis really off the hook so tidily? Could I go back to life-as-usual so soon? “If you have an airtight alibi, then you’re free to leave town, right? We can still go on our Adirondacks trip next—”
“Nope.”
“What? Why not?”
Otis sighed. He rubbed the back of his neck. He lowered his voice. “Okay, well, the thing is, a witness overheard me having a … a heated argument with Mikey about money the day before yesterday.”
Money. It felt as if a steel clamp had tightened around my ribs. Because hadn’t Aunt Effie and I just agreed to follow the money?
“What money?” I asked. “Who heard you?” It wasn’t like Otis to argue with anyone about anything, honestly, and—heated? I just couldn’t picture it.
“I noticed that a few hundred bucks were missing at the shop. From the lockbox. And since Mikey, Grandpa, and I were the only ones with access to the lockbox, I decided I had to ask Mikey about it. He got defensive, I got frustrated, he started guilting me about being suspicious of him, and that’s when I noticed that Sharleen Kowalski was standing there in the garage doorway, hanging on to every word.”
“Sharleen Kowalski? That lady from the gardening shop?”
“Uh-huh. She was there to pick up her car. Apparently she told the police about the argument—I can’t really blame her—so despite my taking-Grandma-to-the-mall alibi, I’m still not off the hook. I got the impression Detective Albright is going to try to verify my alibi.”
“With Grandma Bee.”
“Yeah.”
With Grandma Bee, who Karen said is a few sticks of gum short of a pack. Great.
“And … there’s more,” Otis said.
“No.”
“Yep. According to the coroner, the locations of the wrench wounds to Mikey’s head suggest that he was not fleeing his assailant.”
“So he knew his killer?”
“Maybe. Or, if the killer was not known to him, that he had a high level of comfort around the killer and didn’t expect to be hit. Naturally, Detective Albright has latched on to option one—that Mikey knew his killer, because his killer was me. Don’t worry. This will all fizzle out once my alibi is verified by Grandma. I hate the idea of her having to talk to the police, but she’s tough.”
“Right,” I said, my belly knotting. “Hey, where did Mikey work before you hired him last month?”
“Well, he had been unemployed for a few months, but before that he worked at the Speedy Lube in Lucerne.”
“Did they fire him?”
“Uh … yeah. For being late all the time. I can tell you’re wondering why I hired him.”
“Maybe.”
“I guess I just felt kind of sorry for him, you know? He had just turned forty and he was still living like he was twenty-one and with all the time in the world to get his life together. Mikey was the star quarterback at Naneda High twenty-some years ago—that was actually on his résumé, believe it or not—and I guess he just never got over it. After high school, he dropped out of community college after one semester, and then he had this long string of unskilled jobs until by some miracle he got on-the-job training at an automotive repair shop in Syracuse. Plus, I know Karen, and I knew how much Mikey drove her nuts. When I hired Mikey, I just wanted to … help. Can we talk about something else?”
“Sure.”
“Have you unpacked your boxes yet?”
“What boxes?”
“You know what boxes.”
“I haven’t had time.”
Otis kept bugging me about those unpacked boxes in my room at the inn. I wasn’t sure why, since he wasn’t controlling, nor was he especially domestic. His own little bungalow on A Street was tidy but bare-bones. I figured that bringing up my unpacked boxes was just him trying to make conversation.
Chapter 12
The talk at our table at That’s Italiano turned to other topics. Lauren and Jake kept flirting, Chester tried to outshine Jake by quoting Wordsworth poems between bites of lasagna (didn’t work), Otis acted a little depressed, and I gave my eggplant parmesan my full attention since Otis was acting so withdrawn.
I couldn’t stop obsessing about how (a) Effie and I had agreed to “follow the money” and (b), lo and behold, Otis had had an argument with Mikey about money.
Not. Good.
Needless to say, I barely tasted the eggplant parmesan, and suddenly my plate was empty.
When Chester started trying to convince Jake and Lauren that he was now “technically a fitness instructor” since he taught a calisthenics class at the inn “every morning,” I signaled for the check.
We were out on the sidewalk, waiting for Aunt Effie, Hank, and Dorothea to finish paying their own check, when Otis, Jake, and Chester got involved in a conversation about cars. Even Chester could talk cars, since his beyond-crappy Datsun required as much maintenance as a ninety-year-old showgirl.
“So what’s with Mr. Brain Surgeon CrossFit?” I whispered to Lauren. “I noticed he was really enjoying his spinach leaf dinner.”
“He’s eating low-carb,” she whispered back. “He follows the Paleo Diet.”
“What, he personally runs down and kills his own mastodon burgers when he’s not foraging for berries and nuts?”
“Hey, if not eating carbs is what gave him a six-pack, I’m not complaining.”
Aw. Poor, poor lovesick Chester. He and I both have precisely one pack, which sort of obscures the snap on our jeans.
“Since when do you care about six-packs?” I whispered. “And how do you even know he has one?”
“Come on. Look at him. Anyway, Agnes, you should talk about liking hot guys.”
“That’s not why I like Otis.” That’s not why I love him. Even though he shuts me out and eats other ladies’ cupcakes.
“Agnes, it’s time for us dorky girls to reach out and grab what we want. Just because we’re smart and not into spray tanning doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have our pick of the crop. What’s with Otis?” Lauren’s eyes flicked to Otis. “He seems … depressed. So do you.”
“I’ll tell you later. Suffice it to say that things have gone from zero to cray-cray in one day. Oh—and I need to dry-clean that dress you lent me before I give it back.”
“Okaaaay.”
Jake pulled Lauren into the conversation, and then Otis was next to me.
“You look tired,” he said.
“You look tired.” I hadn’t told Otis about being apple-bobbed, obviously, since that would entail telling him I had, y’know, gone and spooked the killer. But the money argument he’d told me about was still bugging me. Maybe if I was blunt and got everything out in the open, this miserable awkwardness would go away.
“So,” I said in my most casual, friendly voice, “earlier today I was talking to Alexa Rice, and she told me Mikey had this big influx of cash a few weeks ago, and I’m
starting to get worried because you said you had that argument. With Mikey. About money…” My voice trailed off. I hugged my cardigan around myself.
Otis’s mouth was tight. “Listen, Agnes,” he said softly, so that the others wouldn’t hear. “I’m just going to come right out and say this. First, you tell me that you just happened to be at Karen’s house, where she made that comment about my grandma being crazy, and now you’re saying you just happened to fall into conversation with Alexa, the wife of Mikey’s best friend?”
“Wait—Mikey and Randy were friends?”
“What difference does it make? The point is, I know you’re sleuthing, and I think it’s a really bad idea. Number one, it’s dangerous, and number two, you could tick off the police, and, frankly, the fact that you keep lying to me is ticking me off, too.”
“What?” My eyes grew wide.
Otis had never once been mad at me before. Of course, we had only been sorta-dating for about a month, and there’s a first time for everything.
“Don’t look at me like that, Agnes.”
“Like what?”
“Like some kind of Precious Moments figurine. Listen, I’m sorry. It’s…” He pushed a hand through his hair, messing it up. “Listen, I just don’t want you to … Focus on helping the Chamber make the harvest festival go great—Naneda really needs it, especially with the news of Mikey making it to some of the big regional news shows and newspapers. Plus, you’ve got your work cut out for you, what with hiring an architect for the inn renovation, and—” Otis made a lopsided smile. “—finally unpacking those boxes of yours.”
“Ugh.” The thought of all those unpacked cardboard boxes suddenly felt like a dead weight sucking me down. “Honestly, I’m considering just dumping them in one of those storage pods or something.”
Otis’s face suddenly shuttered. “A storage pod. So they’ll be all ready to go for your next move.”
“I can’t deal with unpacking boxes right now. Deciding what to keep and what to get rid of—how can I even know, when where I’m living is temporary?”
“Huh.” Otis turned to the others. “Listen, I’ve gotta go.” He went to Jake and gave him a hug and a slap on the back. “Great seeing you, man.” He turned to Lauren and Chester. “Don’t get Jake into any trouble, okay?” Last, Otis turned to me. “Good night, Agnes.” No hug. No kiss. No smile. Then he said softly, so the others wouldn’t hear, “I think we need to take a break.”
I reared back. “What?”
“I just … I need some space, okay? To be alone and … and deal with all this. Okay?”
“No, it is not okay.”
“I’m sorry, Agnes.” Otis turned and set off down the lamplit sidewalk.
I watched him go, my lungs tight and my eyeballs hot.
What had just happened?
Wait. I’d meant that living at the inn felt temporary, but Otis must’ve thought I meant my living in Naneda was temporary. Which it was … maybe. Because applying to grad school suddenly seemed like more of a possibility.
“Everything okay, Agnes?” Lauren said.
I couldn’t answer.
*
After the gaggle had been delivered to the inn and Chester had gone home, Effie and I got into her Cadillac and drove through the night to Birch Grove B and B.
Believe me, with Otis saying he wanted to “take a break,” I was in no mood to go poking around in other people’s recycling bins. I was in the mood to eat Ben & Jerry’s and watch a mopey movie while wearing sweatpants. Otis said he needed a break to deal with what was happening in his life, but we both knew that was only kinda true. He also needed a break because I wouldn’t stop snooping. But, talk about a catch-22, as long as Otis was a murder suspect who could, theoretically, be wrongfully imprisoned, I was all over this investigation like white on rice.
Hopefully I wasn’t making the biggest mistake of my life.
Effie rolled to a stop at the curb across the street from Birch Grove.
“Tons of lights are on,” I whispered, staring at the house’s facade.
“It’s only about ten o’clock. Go on. You’ll be fine. Channel your inner panther. I’ll wait here so we can make a quick getaway.” Snick went Effie’s lighter as she fired up a ciggy.
I got out and tiptoed across the shadowy lawn to the side of the house.
When I reached the recycling bins, they were empty.
*
Later, up in my room, I sat down on my bed with my phone, found the number for Dickens New and Used Books, and dialed. After suffering through their recorded spiel about fall hours and toddler story time and punching 2 a couple of times, I got through to Elaine Cruz’s personal mailbox. I left a message telling her I was the Gourd Queen winner and that I needed to discuss the situation with her so could she please call me back.
Sometimes I can’t believe the sentences that come out of my own mouth.
Then, just for kicks, I went to the bathroom doorway and looked at the rotten floorboards. It would feel really good—no, amazing—to pry those up. Get rid of the rot. Set that floor on the path to recovery. It wasn’t terribly late. I could remove a few boards, right?
I laced my sneakers back on, went downstairs, and headed out to the toolshed. I yanked a string to switch on the lightbulb. There it was, sturdy and unassuming, leaning in a dim corner next to a shovel: the crowbar.
I smiled.
*
Twoish hours later, untidy stacks of cracked, stinky, 150-year-old floorboards filled the attic hallway. Antique nails, charming in their irregularity, lay scattered everywhere. The bathroom floorboards had come up without much protest, although it hadn’t been as easy as I’d imagined. On HGTV, demolition happens in a montage with a sprightly soundtrack.
This, however, wasn’t pretty. The rotten boards were spongy, even powdery in spots, but the boards that weren’t rotten had been harder to pry up. I’d braced the curve of the crowbar on the joists below and shimmied until the nails squeaked and popped free.
Yeah. I might not be able to hang onto a sorta-boyfriend, but I could demolish a floor. So there.
What remained was a grid of floor joists and a few pipes, below which were the lath and plaster that made up the ceiling of the floor below. I had to walk on the joists like a tightrope walker; one wrong step and I’d go crashing through.
I was breathless, sweaty, grimy, buzzing with exhaustion, and I had the disgusting suspicion that my hair was now harboring millions of wet rot fungus spores. But I had done it. The floor was gone.
What came next, I wasn’t sure. But hey, you know what they say about hitting rock bottom: there’s nowhere to go but up.
*
The next day was Tuesday. I dragged myself out of bed before dawn and dressed in leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, sneakers, and my glasses. Because I’d taken a late-night shower and gone to sleep with wet hair, I looked like road kill. Even though I’d worn gloves the previous night, my palms were raw from all that crowbarring. Bad hair, sore hands … those were still no match for the Otis-induced ache in my heart.
I climbed into the Dustbuster and made the sojourn to Flour Girl Bakery. I had agreed to do this so Chester could get some extra sleep. After all, he had to work the janitorial night shift at the middle school on weekdays.
As I sat in the bakery waiting for my order, I picked up the latest Naneda Gazer.
Aaaaand … there I was on the front page in grainy black and white, standing on the stage in Fountain Square and awkwardly holding out the bouquet for Hugh Simonian. Hugh looked slim and attractive in his jeans and plaid jacket. I, on the other hand, looked like a brunette Barbie caught on a wide-angle lens. Why had Aunt Effie made my hair so huge?
“Great picture,” someone said.
I jumped, rattling the newspaper, and looked up.
“Delilah,” I said. “I didn’t even hear you.”
“I’m light on my feet.” She flashed her dimple. “I took a lot of dance classes as a kid. Ballet, tap, you name it. I was
obsessed with Shirley Temple. I wanted to be her.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Indiana. I’m just a little midwestern girl.” Delilah sipped from her to-go coffee cup.
“And what brought you to Naneda?” I was just making polite conversation. All I really wanted was to get away from Delilah. She had this sparkly gloating thing going on—and who wore that much mascara at six in the morning, anyway?
“I came here for a long weekend once with my boyfriend—that was when I was living in New York City, going to pastry school—”
Pastry school? Had I ever missed my calling.
“—before I moved back to Indiana, and I totally fell in love with Naneda on that trip. It’s such a cute town! I told myself if I ever had the chance, I’d set up a cupcake store here. It feels like stepping back in time. The pace is slower, people are friendlier, and it seems like the perfect place to put down roots. I always wanted to live in a small town. I was raised by a single dad in the suburbs—the yucky suburbs, not the pretty ones—”
“Wait—you have a boyfriend?”
“Ex.” Delilah gave me a smile as fakey as a chimpanzee’s. I assumed she was thinking about Otis and how she was in the process of stealing him.
I held her gaze. Neither of us was willing to lose the staring contest. My right eyelid started to twitch. Hold on, Agnes, hold ON.
I was spared from having to look away when the barista chirped, “Pumpkin spice latte on the bar!”
“Anyhoo,” Delilah said, “congrats on winning Gourd Queen. We’re going to have so much fun up on that float, aren’t we? Oh, and isn’t it great that we discovered that superimportant new clue that Mikey had a bunch of cash?”
“You … know about that?”
“Thought you were one step ahead of me, dincha? Nope, Agnes, you’re going to have to try a little harder than that to be one step ahead of little ol’ me! Why are looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“I hate to rain on your suspicion parade, Agnes, but I have an airtight alibi. Otis told me what the coroner said about Mikey’s time of death—does that bug you?—and on Sunday, before I went in to work at the shop, I was with Alexa between ten and one. In Brighton, as a matter of fact, visiting her grandpa at his nursing home. He has dementia. Luckily, I was a candy striper in high school, so he finds my presence super soothing.”
