String of Lies

by Mary Ellen Hughes

  Vernon studied Javonne’s beads a moment, then said, “the blue and green works, but I’d arrange them like this.” He moved several beads around to make a new pattern which, Jo saw, improved the look considerably. Javonne agreed, smiling broadly and thanking Vernon profusely. A few of the ladies who had turned to watch, held their bead boards out to him, asking, “What do you think?” Vernon looked each over, giving a thumbs up, or offering suggestions for improvement.

  Jo grinned. It appeared she had an unpaid assistant with her. If Vernon continued to progress as rapidly in this craft as he had been, he might be teaching her a few things before long.

  One by one, the ladies finished picking out their beads and sat down to work at assembling their necklaces.

  “If this turns out,” Donna, the thin, dark-haired friend of Betty’s said, “I’ll want to wear it to the Abbotsville Founders Ball on Saturday. I have a gray dress that will be perfect once it has something bright at the neckline.”

  “But Donna,” Betty asked, “are they still having the Ball? Mallory Holt was in charge of it, you know, as president of the Women’s Club.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t thought!” Donna looked stricken.

  “Surely the ball has been all arranged before, well, before this other thing happened.” Celia, the woman Jo remembered as having overheard fights between Parker Holt and Pheasant Run’s first manager said this. Celia held her own work-in-progress around her neck and judged it for length, pulling the wire tighter, then looser over her blouse.

  “Yes, don’t worry, Donna,” Ina Mae spoke up. “I talked with Sally Robinson just yesterday. The ball is still on, despite Mallory’s state of affairs.”

  Donna looked relieved, and renewed work on her beads.

  “What’s happening with that man they think did it?” A woman in a bright flowered top over raspberry-colored pants asked. “I mean that Hispanic worker. Have they charged him?”

  Jo exchanged a glance with Ina Mae, not happy with the implied assumption of Xavier’s guilt. Ina Mae spoke first. “No one’s been charged yet. Obviously, the police don’t have any clear evidence yet on anyone.”

  “How is Mallory holding up, anyone know?” This from Betty Kidwell, whose three-tiered, multi-beaded necklace, Jo could see, was going to take her more than one workshop to finish.

  The flowery-topped woman said, “My hairdresser told me that Lucy Kunkle told her Mallory is devastated and barely able to function.”

  Jo caught Ina Mae’s eye again and knew what she was thinking. Mallory was functioning well enough to meet Sebastian Zarnik for lunch. But Ina Mae wisely remained silent on this point.

  The conversation drifted to the topics of life insurance and Medicare, with Angie Palmer continuing to linger closely to the group. At one point, just as Jo began to despair of getting anything helpful from the women, she noticed Ina Mae in close discussion with Loralee. Loralee shook her head - at what Jo had no idea - but then crept over to Vernon. Loralee put her head down close to her former butcher, speaking softly, and Vernon nodded and looked back at Ina Mae. Jo wasn’t sure what they were up to, but in a minute or so, as she helped Betty choose a clasp, she found out.

  “Jo,” Vernon said, standing up, “I’m finished. When you have a moment, would you total up the cost of my materials?”

  “Of course,” Jo said, reaching for Vernon’s board which held a lovely two-tiered “illusion” style necklace in browns and beiges, its beads widely spaced and seeming to float on their near-invisible wire.

  “Miss Palmer?” Vernon turned to Angie. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d be very interested in taking a look at your model condo.”

  “Certainly!” Angie cried. She popped up from an empty table on which she’d half-sat, watching over the workshop “Are you and your wife thinking of joining us at Pheasant Run?”

  “Well,” Vernon began, and Jo was left to imagine the tale he spun as he drew the woman away from the group. She glanced over to Ina Mae and Loralee whose eyes danced. Mission accomplished, they seemed to say, and Jo smiled back.

  After a moment, Ina Mae pronounced to no one in particular, “Angie seems to be a very capable manager.”

  “Oh, yes,” Betty agreed, and several other heads nodded. “I have no complaints with her whatsoever.”

  “Pheasant Run is fairly new,” Ina Mae continued. “Has she been here from the start?” she asked, already aware, of course, of the answer.

  “No,” several voices hastened to enlighten her at once. Celia’s, being the strongest and highest pitched, prevailed. “The first manager was a younger woman. She was the one sold Ralph and me our ‘Blue Jay’.”

  “Oh,” a tiny-voiced woman piped up. “Was that the pretty blond woman who first showed Jim and me around? She wasn’t here when we came back for a second look.”

  “Yes,” Celia confirmed. “Blond, slim, liked to wear a lot of perfume.”

  “Uh-huh.” Several heads nodded agreement.

  “Poison,” Celia said, then, noticing startled looks, explained. “I mean, that was her perfume. Poison.”

  “Oh!” Titters rippled through the group.

  “You mentioned something the other day about problems between her and Parker Holt,” Jo said. “What sort of problems were they?”

  “Well,” Celia said, drawing a breath as well as the attention of all, “all I know is several people overheard them arguing. My next door neighbor, Elaine, told me she was passing by the office on her way out to her doctor’s appointment – Elaine suffers terribly from psoriasis, you know – and she heard Heather – that was her name, Heather Bannister – say she was going to sue. Then a man who sounded very much like Parker Holt started laughing. Elaine said it gave her the chills, the sort of laugh it was. He said something like, ‘You even think of doing that and I’ll …’ and Elaine couldn’t hear the rest. But she thought it must have been some kind of terrible threat because next thing we knew Heather was gone and no lawsuit ever materialized.”

  The ladies of the workshop were silent as they took in this story.

  “Heather Bannister,” Javonne asked. “I’m trying to remember. Is she related to the Prices who have the hardware store on Mulberry?”

  Blank looks responded to Javonne’s question until Betty said, “Not her. It’s her husband who’s Ellie Price’s nephew.”

  Javonne nodded. “That must be it.” She looked over at Jo and smiled slyly, her eyes seeming to ask. ‘How’d I do?’

  “Excellent,” Jo said aloud, then added, “I mean, your necklace turned out beautifully, Javonne.”

  The ladies near Javonne looked over, oohing and ahhing.

  Jo, however, looked over to Ina Mae and Loralee. Excellent, she telegraphed. You all get an ‘A’.

  CHAPTER 16

  As they returned to their cars, Jo thanked the ladies and Vernon profusely for their help. Vernon had told her that Angie gave him an enthusiastic grand tour of the facilities, but that he had put her off about bringing his wife to see it, claiming Evelyn wouldn’t even consider downsizing from their three-bedroom house until he cleaned his garage and basement of forty years’ worth of junk.

  “It’s the truth,” he said. “She’s been after me to clean them out. If she’d be at all interested in moving after I do it, is a whole different story.” He gave a hint of a smile. “I might forget to suggest it to her.”

  Jo laughed. “You like having your workspace, huh?” Vernon had nodded.

  Another senior citizen, Jo mulled as she drove away from Pheasant Run, who felt attached to his home. Loralee hadn’t said much more about her own dilemma, but Jo was sure it was eating at her. She’d noticed Loralee pulling out a roll of Tums from her purse a few times during the evening, which was not a good sign.

  Jo drove into her quiet neighborhood which seemed even more still than usual on this starless January night. Everyone, she thought, was likely wrapped snugly in their quilts, either in front of TVs or in warm beds.

  Jo pulled into her garage, lowered the doo
r, and left her beading supplies behind in the car. She slipped past her small jewelry workroom, repaired from its damage of four months ago but sitting unused, and Jo vowed that she would find the time to return to her beloved metal craft as soon as this Parker Holt problem was cleared up. She entered the welcoming warmth of her kitchen, hung her jacket on a hook near the door and dropped her keys on the counter. Glancing over at her sparsely-furnished living room, Jo pictured Sebastian Zarnik’s paint gun creation hanging on the wall and smiled, thinking how the artwork cost more than what she had paid for the entire second-hand contents of the room. Hopefully, Zarnik hadn’t picked up on that fact, though.

  She considered fixing a quick cup of tea, but decided, after the fullness of the day, her wiser choice was bed. Not too many minutes later, Jo had begun pulling back the comforter on her bed, when the phone rang.

  “Jo?” a male voice asked, and it took her a moment to recognize it.

  “Rafe?” She hadn’t run into Rafe Rulenski, the director of the Abbotsville Playhouse for ages, it seemed. Or at least a couple of months.

  “Sorry to call so late. We just finished up with rehearsals. How’s that kid doing? The one who fell into the pit here?”

  Knowing Rafe, he hadn’t really called because of Charlie. The man was not known for a deep interest in the ‘little’ people around him. The obvious proof was that Rafe didn’t remember Charlie’s name. But Jo played along.

  “Charlie’s doing okay. He started back at school today.”

  “Great. Glad to hear it. So it wasn’t too bad, huh?’

  “A couple of cracked ribs. Painful, but not life threatening. He’ll be happy to hear you asked about him.” Only four days after Charlie’s accident, but oh, well.

  “Right. Say, are you doing anything Saturday night?”

  “Saturday?” This was a surprise.

  “Yes. Like to go with me to the Founders Ball? It’s a dreary, dress-up kind of thing, but I have to go. I thought it’d be a little less dreary if you came along.”

  What a silver-tongued devil this man was. Apparently the best her companionship could do was make his night a little less dreary.

  Rafe plowed on. “It’s one of those, ‘the whole town turns out’ functions. I’ve got to be there, talking up the playhouse and the support it deserves. Mallory Holt made me promise to show up, and if I don’t she’ll have my head.”

  “Mallory Holt will be there?”

  “Uh-huh. I know, it’s only a couple days after her husband’s funeral, but she says she’ll still be there. ‘The show must go on’ and all that. So, what do you say?”

  Hearing that Mallory Holt would be there had suddenly made the ball tempting. “I’d really like to,” Jo said, “but I don’t have anything appropriate to wear.”

  “No problem. You could probably find something in the playhouse’s stash of costumes. They’ll fit almost anyone. I’m borrowing one of their tuxes, myself.”

  Jo grinned, imagining what her choices might be. Did she want to arrive at the ball dressed like Mary Todd Lincoln, or perhaps Lady Macbeth? Somehow, neither seemed quite her thing. “I’ll see if I can dig up something, maybe borrow a dress from a friend. It sounds like an interesting night, Rafe. Thanks for asking me.”

  “My pleasure. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  Jo hung up and climbed under the bed covers. So she’d finally get to meet Mallory Holt on Saturday night. Who else, she wondered, might be there?

  Rafe’s words – I’ll pick you up at eight – ran through her head, words she hadn’t heard from a man in a long time.

  “It’s not a date, Mike,” she said as she closed her eyes, somehow feeling the need to explain. “He simply wants me along as a distraction, and I’m only going for Xavier and Dan’s sake.”

  Either Mike had nothing to say on the subject, or Jo fell asleep within seconds.

  <><><>

  The next morning, Jo was helping a customer select papers for an ongoing scrapbooking project when Carrie arrived. Carrie greeted them both, and though she had sounded fairly upbeat, to Jo’s finer-tuned ear the worries of the last few days were taking their toll.

  “How’s your boy doing?” the customer asked. The red-haired, pleasantly-attractive mother of two was putting together scrapbooks of her children’s individual achievements, both athletic and scholarly. Jo realized the older child, a girl, might be about Charlie’s age.

  “He’s doing well,” Carrie answered. “Thank you for asking.”

  The woman smiled and finished up with her purchases, chatting casually with Jo about how busy and active her family was and how she expected to fill many a scrapbook over the years. She thanked Jo for her help, and took off. Jo turned to Carrie and, hoping to perk her up a bit, filled her in on her evening at Pheasant Run.

  “I’d like to try to talk with this Heather Bannister today, if you don’t mind holding down the fort here again.”

  “No, not at all. I’m so grateful for all you’re doing. So you think this former manager could be a suspect?”

  “She’s worth looking at, anyway. Anyone who had a beef with Parker Holt is someone I want to learn more about. Has Dan had any luck talking with Holt’s workers?”

  Carrie shook her head. “He hasn’t come up with a thing.” Carrie sighed, and looked at Jo with shadow-edged eyes. “Dan went to talk with Xavier last night. He’s worried – I mean more worried – about him.”

  “Did things go badly for Xavier at the police station yesterday?”

  “Yes and no. They still haven’t charged him, which is a good thing. But Dan thinks they’re still convinced Xavier’s the one. But there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “Dan’s starting to get the feeling, and he swears he can’t put his finger on it as to why or what it might be, but he’s wondering if there’s something Xavier is holding back.”

  Jo flashed back to her talk with Xavier at the apartment and remembered having the same feeling. It had something to do with the way Xavier looked when he spoke about his time – the critical time- spent picking up groceries. Was he merely envisioning that hour, trying to come up with someone who might remember he had been there? Or was it something else?

  “That’s not a good feeling,” she said.

  “No,” Carrie agreed worriedly. “Not at all.”

  <><><>

  Price’s Hardware was a modest-sized store whose windows were packed with things like advertising posters, power tools, and mailboxes. From what Jo could see as she peered through the merchandise, the store currently had only two customers. She hoped they would leave soon and not be speedily replaced. She entered the store, and one or two heads turned to glance her way. Jo feigned interest in a chart of paint colors as she waited for a chance to talk to the owner.

  She decided the older man behind the counter, discussing the merits of a certain snow blower with a heavy-set man, must be Jim Price whom she’d only glimpsed at TJ’s. Dark-haired with graying temples, she guessed his age to be around fifty. He was perhaps five foot ten, and appeared fit, as someone who actually used many of the tools he stocked and sold.

  Jo caught sight of a younger man coming out of a back room and thought he must be Jim’s son, Gary. She recognized the buzz cut, and now caught a resemblance to his father in his broad jaw and thick brows. Gary looked barely twenty-one, if that old. Jo remembered the youthful emotionalism in his voice as he complained about the unfairness of Heather Bannister’s situation. He clearly had a lot of sympathy for her problem. If she were truly deserving of it, was something Jo hoped to find out.

  The snow blower customer wound up the discussion with a declaration that he’d think it over for a while. The second man moved forward and laid his purchases – two boxes of nails and a roll of duct tape – on the counter, and paid for them with a minimal exchange of words. When he left, Jim Price looked over to Jo and called out, “Help you with anything, Miss?”

  “I hope so,” Jo said, and walked over. She introduced
herself, then said, “I understand you’re related to Heather Bannister.”

  “Heather?” Price said, surprised. “She’s married to my wife’s nephew. Why?”

  “I’ve been talking to someone who had a problem as an employee of Parker Holt. A sexual harassment, loss of job problem. Mrs. Bannister used to work for Parker Holt at Pheasant Run. I’d very much like to ask her about her experience there. I wondered if you could put me in touch with her.”

  Gary Price left a box of chrome faucets he’d been unpacking and came over to where his father stood, his face animated. “Is there a class action suit or something in the works?” he asked. “Are you a lawyer?”

  “No, I’m not. I’d simply like to see if Mrs. Bannister ran into problems similar to this other former employee. It may or may not be of any benefit to Mrs. Bannister, but it would help us.”

  “Heather was fired by Parker Holt and she didn’t deserve to be!” Gary said.

  “We don’t really know the whole story, Miss,” Jim Price said, tempering his son’s statement. “I got the feeling Heather was fairly embarrassed over whatever happened and didn’t want to talk about it that much. I don’t know if she’ll want to talk to you, but maybe it would help her to know she’s not alone. How about I give her a call and see what she says?”

  “That’d be great.”

  Price went to the back room, and in a moment Jo heard the sound of his deep voice talking into the phone. Gary fidgeted as they waited, and before long Price came back out. He nodded and handed Jo a slip of paper with an address on it.

  “She says you could come over right now if you like. She’s been trying to sell real estate since she left Pheasant Run. But things are pretty quiet in January.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate this.”

  A man and woman entered the store, so Jo took her leave, Price nodding soberly and Gary looking like he wanted to run out with her and follow along. Jo hated that she might be leaving him with a more hopeful expectation for what she was doing than what was warranted, but didn’t see any way of clearing that up that would still allow her to meet with Heather. Her first responsibility was clearly to Xavier and Dan. If it turned out that Heather Bannister had a connection to Parker Holt’s murder, Jo would turn her in without a second thought.