A Star-Spangled Murder

by Valerie Wolzien

  “Chocolate,” Theresa requested.

  “And peppermint,” her younger sister added. “I love peppermint.”

  “That’s enough of a choice for me,” Kathleen agreed. “Do you have your wallet?”

  Susan patted the fanny pack she wore. “I guess Karma’s going with me,” she said, getting into the driver’s seat. She was anxious to start and didn’t hear Tierney’s comment as she drove off down the road.

  “Maybe we should have told her that Karma gets carsick,” she said to her sister.

  “No. She’ll be okay. She only barfs if she goes out right after she’s eaten,” Theresa answered as they helped Kathleen carry the groceries into the house.

  “I am so sorry. I had no idea she was going to do that. She’s not my dog—in fact, I just met her owners today, and no one told me that she gets carsick.” Susan was apologizing profusely as she scrounged around in her belt pack for clean tissues. “I really don’t know anything about dogs.”

  “Well, I do, and this one is jim-dandy—a real sweetheart.” The woman Susan was visiting, the woman wearing the denim skirt that Karma had just vomited on, knelt down and smoothed the dog’s fur back from her face. Karma’s tail was wagging fast, smacking Susan’s bare legs. “There’s a bunch of rags just inside the kitchen door. You’re welcome to use them to clean off your windshield if you want.”

  “Thanks, I …”

  “I’ll watch the dog. She can come into my studio with me.”

  “I don’t think—” Susan began her warning.

  “Don’t worry. I understand dogs. And if she hurts anything, I’ll blame only my stupidity for it.”

  Susan decided to stop wasting time. She hurried by a narrow flower bed of tall lupine and onto the porch of the tiny white cottage. The bright red back door was propped open with a chunk of white granite so that the large family of Maine coon cats living here could come and go as necessary. She found the rag bag and grabbed a holey T-shirt claiming to be from “lowstone National Pa” and returned to mop out her car. Karma had thrown up three times during the couple of miles they had traveled to get here, and it took a while to wipe everything down. When she was finished, she rinsed the rag at the outside pump standing in the side yard and hung it over the freshly painted picket fence. Then she hurried into the large old bam that leaned against the house.

  A sign on the sliding door had only two words printed on it: yarn said one; the other was weavings. Susan walked in. She had been here more than once last summer when she knit sweaters for herself, her husband, and her daughter from the yarn that Beth Eaton dyed and spun from the island’s sheep and goats, so she had no trouble recognizing the origins of the fluffy yarn Titania was using. And, having met Titania, she was fairly sure that whomever the girl met, she would have talked to about her life. Susan was only hoping that there might be some clues to the girl’s hiding place and the reason she seemed to think it was necessary to hide.

  Susan found Beth working at a large Swedish loom, one of three that filled the half of the barn that wasn’t used to display items for sale. The dog lay on the floor at her feet, her head propped on her front paws.

  “I think I know this dog,” Beth said, throwing the shuttle through the warp and back again. “Doesn’t she usually hang out with a redheaded teenager who’s learning to knit?”

  Susan was relieved. “Yes. And that’s what I want to talk with you about.”

  “I was wondering why you’d appeared here. I would think that you’d be too busy to knit right now. Or doesn’t finding a body in your living room make a big difference in a person’s life?”

  Susan wasn’t too surprised; the island grapevine had always impressed her with its speed and efficiency. “A huge difference,” Susan admitted. “Especially since Titania—the girl who brought the dog with her—has disappeared.”

  The shuttle flew across the loom and out the other side onto the floor, where Karma grabbed it in her mouth, refusing to let go until bribed with a shortbread cookie that Beth retrieved from a large jar standing on the end of her bench.

  “I had no idea—that poor girl. Do you think she’s been hurt? Or kidnapped? I hear that the man who died was her stepfather.”

  “He was, and I don’t think she’s hurt. She’s hiding.…”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that she vanished—after asking me to take care of her dog.”

  Beth played with the shuttle, winding soft apricot wool around it for a few minutes before speaking. And when she did, it was in a voice so quiet that it was almost inaudible. “Do you think she had anything to do with killing her stepfather?”

  “No, I don’t. What have you heard that would make you ask a question like that?”

  Beth chuckled quietly. “Those girls and their antics have kept the island amused since the week before Memorial Day. But it’s difficult to tell what’s the truth and what’s exaggerated. Before this murder, the Taylor girls were well on their way to becoming legends in their own time. Do you want a cup of tea?”

  “I’d love one,” Susan answered. “But I shouldn’t spend too much time.…”

  “I have a thermos right here as well as an extra mug. Sit still and I’ll tell you what little I know as well as what I’ve heard.” She flipped another cookie at the dog, poured them both some tea, and began her story.

  “Actually no one heard very much in the beginning of the summer. In the first place, neither Mr. Taylor came up with the family back in May.”

  “So you met the women in the family first?”

  “I did, but that’s not true of most people on the island. That house was built under the very close supervision of Ted Taylor—the first husband, as I understand it.”

  Susan nodded. “So he was up here earlier in the spring?”

  “He’s been up here almost every weekend since the middle of last summer, when they started work on the foundation. He’s picked every workman, every piece of granite from the quarry, and every tree before and after the mill got through with it. He would have driven everyone crazy except for two things.…”

  “Which are?”

  “The recession has made people real happy just to get work. And he knows and appreciates good craftsmanship. Workmen like to be appreciated.”

  “So most people who know him like him?”

  “Pretty much. He demanded the best from everyone, and one or two people thought that was being mighty picky. You know how it is. But I think you could say that Ted Taylor is liked and respected by those he came in contact with here.” She nodded to herself and gave the retriever another cookie.

  “And the rest of the family?” Susan munched on a cookie despite the pleading look in the dog’s eyes. Was it her fault if the damn thing threw up at the drop of a hat?

  “The three girls and their mother have been here since May, and no one has anything real bad to say about them. The mother seems a little high-strung, but nothing terribly unusual. If anyone thought about them at all, they probably just thought they were typical summer people. At least, I didn’t hear anything different. In fact, I don’t think anyone thought anything until their stepfather—I don’t know his name.…”

  “Humphrey Taylor.”

  “That’s it. Until Humphrey Taylor appeared. There aren’t a lot of people who marry their ex-husband’s brother (although someone did mention that it was an ancient custom in some societies), and that got a fair amount of comment when it was known.”

  “And how did anyone find out about it? Or was it just the identical last names that tipped people off?”

  “Humphrey announced it himself. In the post office one morning, of all places. He might as well have put it on a billboard in the town square—as you well know.”

  Susan did know. A lot of information went through the post office. It was a way of knowing who was on the island picking up their mail and who was off island having everything forwarded home. And the fact that the wife of the postmaster was one hell of a gossip he
lped the distribution process considerably. “He announced it?”

  “You know how some of the high school girls help out when things get crowded? Well, one of them said there was mail for Mr. Taylor, and he said something like ‘Mr. Humphrey Taylor or Mr. Ted Taylor?’ and then went on to explain that he had married his brother’s wife and requested that all the mail to Ted Taylor be sent somewhere else—I have no idea where. He wasn’t on island then, as I remember it.”

  “And what happened then?”

  “I think that’s when the stories started. At least that’s when I first heard anything.” She scratched Karma behind her ears, and Susan waited for her to continue. “Less than a week later, most people on the island were talking about how Humphrey Taylor was in the supermarket when he put his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker and found that they had been filled with chocolate pudding.” She chuckled. “More than a few people developed an instant respect for the man’s vocabulary that day. There were contests among some of the coarser young men at the high school as to who could draw the most accurate picture of just what that man described at the top of his voice while waiting in line to pay for his cornflakes.”

  Susan smiled. “And did he say exactly who he thought had put the pudding in his pockets?”

  “There was no doubt in the mind of anyone in the store that he blamed his stepdaughters. And that’s not all that happened. I heard various stories about the girls putting mud from the bottom of the cove inside the wet suit he wore kayaking, and one of my best customers heard that they filled the legs with strips of raspberry vines—and you know how full of thorns those things are. It sounds to me—” she looked down at the dog “—like they’ve been pretty busy. And then there’s the story of the Zodiac.”

  “One of those inflatable boats?”

  “Yup. Humphrey’s sank. There were holes in it.”

  “Couldn’t that just have been an accident?”

  Beth shook her head. “Not a chance. There are numerous chambers in a four-man Zodiac. There were holes in each chamber. And you can’t just poke holes in these things easily, you know. They’re tough, double rubber. Someone would have to get out a drill with a large bit and spend quite a lot of time to turn the bottom of one of those boats into imitation Swiss cheese.”

  “I gather Humphrey didn’t go down with his ship,” Susan said, thinking how much easier it would have been for her if he had.

  “He didn’t even get in it. The holes were discovered while the boat was still on land. It was a pretty amateur job.”

  “Which, of course, is why everyone assumed that it had something to do with the girls. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “And they admitted it?”

  “I have no idea. And remember, I’m getting everything thirdhand at best. Could be that a tree branch poked a hole in the side of his boat and he spent the day fishing before anyone noticed. People do exaggerate. I’m just repeating stories here.

  “But I’d like to help that girl,” Beth continued. “Her name’s Titania, right?” (The dog lifted her head at the sound of her owner’s name.) “She’s a sweet kid. And not very happy, it seemed to me.”

  “How many times did you meet her?”

  “I saw her with her whole family at a show down at the gallery on the pier. I probably paid attention because I’d heard so much about the family. She didn’t stand out, though; in fact, I would have had a difficult time telling the three sisters apart. They look so much alike, and all have those dumb T names.

  “But then she came here with her mother. She wanted to learn to knit, and her mother doesn’t know how, so she stayed around for the afternoon and I tried to teach her. I’ve wondered how she was getting along and if she was practicing. She was making an easy stockinette scarf.”

  Susan was able to report on the progress the girl had made before continuing. “What was your impression of her?”

  “Well, she didn’t seem like a maniacal killer, if that’s what you’re asking. She’s a sweetie. A little sad, though. She didn’t talk much at first, and I just assumed she was shy. Later I realized that wasn’t true. In fact, once her mother left, I had the feeling that she was desperate to talk. Poor kid.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She had a lot of feelings bottled up inside her—and some of them were awfully serious for a kid that age to be dealing with.”

  “Like her mother’s divorce and remarriage?”

  “I think there was more to it than that—although that’s pretty tough. We seem to think that just because divorce is common, it’s easy. Titania kept talking about her uncle and how much she and her sisters didn’t like him. I got the impression that they didn’t like him before he was their stepfather.”

  Beth stopped speaking for a moment, and Susan asked a question. “Do you know why? Was it something he did?”

  “I have no idea. You know kids—they’re not all that articulate about some things. Titania said that he was a jerk and added a few other insults. I didn’t ask any questions, I just listened. If I’d known … Well, that won’t help us now, will it? But she did say something interesting. She said that her father hated his brother. In fact, I think she said that they had always hated each other, ever since they were children.”

  “Interesting, but she could have just made that up. Or else exaggerated something her father said in the middle of this divorce,” Susan suggested. “Parents say a lot of things when they’re under stress, and their children don’t always take that into account. Children, I’ve found, have very literal minds, and Titania isn’t that far from childhood.”

  “I’m not arguing with you. And I didn’t question the girl at all. I just helped her knit and listened a little. Seemed at the time that was all I could do. Now … Well, if that poor kid was in the middle of a mess before, it’s nothing to what she’s going to have to deal with now. I sure wish I could help her.”

  “I just wish I could find her!” Susan exclaimed, and went on to explain what little she knew about Titania’s disappearance.

  “You don’t think she killed her uncle?”

  “I don’t. Absolutely. But I don’t think she’s helping by running off, and I have to find her. Did she say anything about where she’d been on the island? Do you have any clues to where she might be?”

  Beth shook her head slowly. “They’ve been up here over a month, and those kids have done the normal exploring that kids do. And you know the island. All the tiny coves—and there are lots of summer houses that are empty even in July. She could be staying in one of them. She could be anywhere. I sure wish I could think of something that would help, but …”

  “I appreciate what you’ve told me,” Susan assured her. “I’m going to do some more checking with other people that are like you—people who would have taken the time to talk with her. A friend is staying with me this week, and she’s back at the house with the younger girls. Could you call there if you think of anything—anything at all?”

  “Of course I will. And good luck.”

  Karma followed Susan back to the car.

  EIGHT

  The dog, at least, was company. It was hard for Susan to feel lonely with the animal drooling and throwing up all over her backseat. It was only a couple of miles to Susan’s next stop, but the road curved around and bumped up and down, and Karma had lost all Beth’s cookies by the time the Jeep stopped in the parking lot of the island’s used bookstore.

  “I’m going to have to tie you up outside, dog,” Susan announced, urging the retriever from the car. “This is no place for you to be sick.”

  Karma responded with eyes that pleaded for company, and she licked her paws as though trying to clean up.

  “Okay, but you have to be good. Come on.” Susan tugged on the leash, and the dog happily followed her into the long, low, white building.

  The sign on the door said time has criticized, and Susan smiled as she entered the large store. She thought this place was perfect. The many shelves we
re so stacked with volumes that they cascaded into piles on the floor. Old rocking chairs, painted light blue and made comfortable with red and white cushions, were scattered around so customers could always find a place to sit and read. A large library table near the door served as a sales table, and the woman behind it leapt up from the mounds of paperbacks she was sorting when Susan walked in.

  “Susan Henshaw! I wondered when you were coming up this year. I have a pile of cookbooks put away somewhere that I’ve been saving especially for you!” The tall woman with shoulder-length straight gray hair pushed her glasses up on her aquiline nose and looked down at Susan’s feet. “What a personable dog. I gather your son finally won the battle?”

  “No way. This is not my dog, and living with this one is not encouraging me to dash right out and buy another. This is Karma, and she belongs to a neighbor. That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about—if you have some time,” Susan added, looking around at the half dozen or so customers browsing the shelves.

  “No problem. I have help this summer. My nephew is home from college for the month, and I have no idea what I’m going to do when he leaves—he became indispensable his first hour in the store. Let me introduce you and then we can go outside and talk—before Karma consumes her weight in mystery novels.”

  Susan looked down and was horrified to discover that the animal had an old paperback Agatha Christie dangling from her mouth. “Karma! I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for—”

  “Don’t think a thing of it. There probably won’t be a customer for Murder on the Orient Express all summer long. People who haven’t read it have seen the movie. But maybe you two should wait for me in one of the chairs back in the pine grove. Behind the building. I’ll be out in a second.”

  Susan took the hint, pulled the dog from the store, and went to find their meeting place. She wandered around until she spied the group of Adirondack chairs scattered under the trees. She wound the leash around the leg of the chair she was sitting in and stared off into the woods, absently patting the dog on the head.