***
Verna’s house was small and neat. Heather was reminded of the phrase “a place for everything, and everything in its place.” Stuck to Verna’s refrigerator with magnets in the shape of farm animals were children’s drawings and paintings on plain white paper, and colored pages ripped from coloring books.
“My kids,” William said, noticing her looking at the artwork. “Bella and Henry. They’re 7 and 5.”
“Is that them?” she asked, pointing to a 4x6 picture held in place by a cow magnet. Two smiling children with dark brown hair like their father’s looked straight into the camera.
“That’s them,” he agreed.
“Your mom must have been so proud,” she said gently.
Heather jumped as several short, loud raps at the back door startled them all. She and Eva turned as William headed for the door and opened it. “You’re Verna’s son, ain’t ya?” came a raspy, abrasive voice.
Frowning, Heather went to stand behind William, wondering who would talk in such a way to a man who had just lost his mother.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Smith, right?” He stuck out his hand to shake hands.
Smith ignored the outstretched hand. “Yeah, I’m Wilbur Smith. Wanted to talk to ya.”
“Would you like to come in?”
“Ain’t necessary. What I got to say can be said right here.”
“Yes sir.”
“You interested in selling this place?”
What? For a brief moment, Heather wondered if she’d spoken her surprise out loud. Who was this man, and why was he asking William if he wanted to sell his mother’s home before poor Verna was even buried?
“I don’t know. I haven’t really had time to think about it,” William responded.
“Your mother was stubborn. I been tryin’ to buy this place off her for years. But she didn’t want to sell. Now she’s gone, maybe you’ll do what’s right.”
Unable to keep silent any longer, Heather stepped forward. “Who in the world are you, Mr. Smith? And don’t you have any better manners than to approach a grieving son like this?”
“Ain’t none of your business, Missy,” Smith said, turning to her, his eyes blazing.
“Mr. Smith lives next door,” William interjected, looking relieved that she was now dealing with the irascible neighbor.
“You just made it my business, sir,” she said. “Why do you want to buy Mrs. Dixon’s property, anyway?”
“That ain’t none of your business either!” he spat.
“But it’s my business,” William said, seeming emboldened by Heather’s support. “Why do you want to buy Mom’s property?”
“Maybe I want to expand my holdings. I’ll give you what this place is worth. Which ain’t very much.”
“Mr. Smith, I think this conversation is over,” William said firmly. “If I ever do decide to sell, I’ll be sure and remember that you’re interested.”
“No,” Smith said, “this ain’t over. Not by a long shot. Not ‘til you come to your senses and do what’s right.” He turned and stomped off toward his own property.
William shut and locked the door, and the three of them turned away. “The nerve of that man!” Eva sputtered. “To talk to you like that ever, and especially when your precious mother just passed!”
“Thank you for jumping in when you did,” he said to Heather. “I guess I was a little taken aback.”
“He’s been trying to buy your mother’s property for years?” she asked.
“Apparently he’d come over here periodically and do what he just did now: stand on the back porch and tell her to come to her senses.”
“Why do you think he wants this property so much?”
“Mom thought it was because of her mineral rights. She received a good-sized check every month.”
“Does Mr. Smith even have enough money to buy her property?”
“Who knows?” William said. “He always seemed to think he did.”
I wonder how much that check was every month, Heather thought. Was it enough to push her bad-tempered neighbor over the edge when she wouldn’t sell? Was it reason enough for him to kill her?
Chapter 6
Heather stood before her tiny closet, searching for the particular skirt she wanted to wear tonight but not finding it. Why did they make closets so small in older homes? she wondered for the thousandth time. People back then had to have a place to store their clothes too, didn’t they?
She dragged her wicker hamper out into the bedroom and began pawing through it. Ah, there was the skirt she was looking for. Rats. She didn’t remember wearing it, but apparently, she had. Oh, well. She’d choose something else for tonight.
After pushing the hamper back into her closet and staring at her selection of clothes for awhile longer, she finally gave up, snatched a long, flowing skirt in muted colors off its hanger, and grabbed a matching blouse with peasant sleeves. Why was she having so much trouble making even simple decisions the last few days? Sure, she wanted to look nice, but it wasn’t like she cared all that much about clothes—not like Amy did.
Sitting down on the edge of her bed, she held the outfit in her lap and fiddled with the fabric. She knew what was wrong, of course. It was that she hadn’t heard from Ryan for a couple days, not since they ate at Giovanni’s. She had grown used to, if not seeing him every day, at least hearing from him by text or phone. The silence of the last two days was something new. And it didn’t feel right.
She’d texted him once but had received no response. Well, she wasn’t going to chase him. Wasn’t going to beg.
And she wasn’t going to sit around stewing about it, either, she decided, abruptly standing up and walking over to her dresser where she kept her jewelry. She was going to go to the symphony with Amy tonight. That knotted bangle bracelet would go well with my outfit, she decided, and lifted it off the holder.
She was going to have a good time. So would those dangly earrings, she decided, scooping them up too.
And she was not going to think about Detective Ryan Shepherd.
***
“So have you heard from Ryan lately?” Amy asked.
Heather glanced at her and tried to sound matter-of-fact. “Not really. He’s probably pretty busy working on the Verna Dixon case right now.”
“Uh-oh,” Amy said as she brought the car to a stop at a light. “Trouble in paradise?”
“I don’t know,” Heather sighed, frustrated. “I don’t know what’s going on with him. Lately he’s seemed more—distant. Or something. I just don’t know.”
“Have you talked to him about it?”
“No. I don’t want to seem needy or anything.”
“But you have a right to know,” Amy said as the light changed and the line of cars began to pull forward. “He needs to be up front with you.”
“It just didn’t feel right to mention it. I mean, we’re just getting our relationship off the ground.”
“Which is all the more reason things need to be clear between the two of you.”
“So what do I do? Do I call him and give him the dreaded ‘We need to talk’ line?”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.” Heather shrugged. “Maybe you’re right.”
***
She did her best not to think about Ryan any more on the way to the Performing Arts Center, or as they entered the lobby where several patrons stood chatting in the remaining minute before the concert. But out of the corner of her eye, she recognized a familiar figure. “Ryan?” she said, surprised.
Fortunately, the man hadn’t heard her, because as he turned away from the bar where he’d ordered a pre-concert drink, she realized that he wasn’t Ryan after all. Didn’t even look much like him, really, when she thought about it.
Amy was watching her, an I-knew-it expression on her face. “Do you need to call him before the concert starts so that you can actually enjoy it?” Amy asked.
“No,” Heather said. “I’m not calling him. I’ll be fine once
the music starts.”
“If you’re sure,” Amy said doubtfully.
Entering the concert hall, they accepted programs from an usher and allowed him to point them toward their seats. Theirs were decent seats, in the first balcony, but at least close to center. They sat down, and Heather began to flip through her program to keep herself occupied.
On the first page was a listing of all the major donors to the Hillside Council for the Fine Arts. At the bottom of the list was a special notation and a head shot of a man dressed in a tuxedo and smiling. Apparently, he had received some special mention from the Council for his “generosity and commitment to the arts,” blah, blah, blah. Dr. Edward J. Banner, read the caption under the picture.
“You ever heard of this Banner guy?” Heather asked Amy.
“Nope. Must be some big-bucks donor.”
“Guess so.”
The house lights dimmed, then rose; dimmed, then rose. Five more minutes. Heather flipped back to the front of her program. An Evening with Tchaikovsky, read the title.
The 1812 Overture was one of Heather’s favorite musical works. Tonight, it was to be played at the end of the program. Fitting, she thought. I can’t wait.
Before long, the lights dimmed and stayed down. The concertmaster strode out onto the stage, holding his violin, and the audience applauded. He acknowledged the applause by bowing, then took his seat. In the middle of the assembled musicians, the oboist played an A, and the other musicians began to tune their instruments.
When they had finished, there was a brief silence. Then, the conductor walked out from the wings, and again, the audience applauded. He bowed to the audience, then shook hands with the concertmaster before he took his place on the podium and raised his baton, ready to give the downbeat.
There was a moment of hushed silence before the baton descended in a sweeping arc and the music began.
***
As the last notes of the 1812 Overture died away, the audience rose to its feet, clapping heartily. “Bravo!” someone near the front shouted, and someone else on one side echoed him. “Bravo!”
The applause continued, and the conductor returned to the stage to take another bow. The applause grew in intensity. “Want to slip out and go for drinks?” Amy asked, leaning towards her to be heard.
“Sure.” Heather reached down and grabbed her purse, and they slipped out past the other patrons in their row, who were still applauding.
***
Because they were two of the first people to leave the concert hall and reach their car, they were able to exit the parking lot easily. Ten minutes later, they were seated at their favorite pub, a drink in front of each of them.
“So if you haven’t talked to Ryan, I’m guessing you don’t know the latest on the investigation,” Amy said, taking a sip of her mojito.
“No,” Heather agreed. “And all I’ve found is that nobody who knew Verna seems to have any idea who would have wanted to kill her.”
“Really, nobody knows anything?” Amy said. “Obviously somebody wanted to kill her.”
“Obviously. But who? I told you about Caring Hearts, the hospice people, and how Verna got one of the volunteers fired, didn’t I?”
“Yeah. But getting fired from a volunteer organization doesn’t seem worth killing somebody over.”
“True. But maybe this other volunteer thought Verna had ruined her reputation. Or maybe she was afraid she’d be brought up on criminal charges.”
Amy shrugged. “Maybe. Who else is on the suspect list?”
“I guess I’d have to list her neighbor, Mr. Smith. Apparently he wanted to buy her property, possibly for the mineral rights. She kept refusing to sell. He was pretty angry. And he has a temper.”
“Sounds like he’s Suspect Numero Uno so far.”
“I guess. I also asked around about Verna at the hospital. But all they said was that she was a great person. Liked to sit with patients who didn’t have anyone. They said she took a couple days off after one of her favorite patients died, but they had thought she would be back. But then she was murdered.”
“So basically, you have nobody.”
“Pretty much.”
“Hmm.” Amy sipped her drink and frowned thoughtfully. “So a woman is dead whom just about everybody liked, and nobody seems to have had a reason to kill her.”
Heather nodded glumly.
“Don’t give up,” Amy urged. “Start thinking about this. What do you know?”
“Well, Verna was shot right about the time the storm was gearing up. Apparently, she had gone out to check on her chickens. She was found on her back, feet pointed toward the house. So probably, somebody came up behind her as she was hurrying to the chicken coop. She turned, they argued, and the person shot her. Or maybe there was no argument. Maybe the killer just got down to business.”
“You told me before that she was shot in the chest. Dead center, no pun intended.”
“Right.”
“So apparently the killer was someone who’s a good shot.”
“Apparently so, which probably means he or she had a lot of experience with guns.”
“Did either the hospice employee or the crabby neighbor have experience?”
“I don’t know. I would imagine Mr. Smith does, at least. He lives in the country, and he’s a good ol’ boy.”
“But why would somebody put a stick of wood in the bullet hole?” Amy asked. “I mean, even I would know that the truth would be discovered before long.”
“Maybe they hoped to confuse the issues for a little while. Or maybe they wanted it to look like the killer was a novice gun-user, someone who would think they could fool the police that way.”
“Crazy,” Amy said, taking another sip of her drink. “This whole thing is crazy.”
“It sure is,” Heather said. “What I need to do is find out some things from Ryan.”
“There you go. That gives you a reason to call him. You won’t look needy. So call. See what he says.”
“Maybe I will,” Heather said slowly, a spark of determination flickering in her chest. If he was avoiding her, she might as well find out sooner rather than later. At least then, they could stop playing games. “In fact, I think I’ll call him right now.”
“Tell him to meet you at your place,” Amy said. “Better to be on home turf.”
Chapter 7
I’m out front, came Ryan’s text.
Heather went to her front door and opened it as Ryan came up the steps to her porch. He smiled at her, that easy grin that melted her heart, and leaned down to give her a brief kiss.
“Glad you could come over,” she said, smiling up at him. “It’s been too long since we’ve seen each other.” Why did I say that? she mentally chastised herself. Talk about sounding needy.
“I’m glad you texted me,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“Are you off duty? I have one more of those beers you like in the fridge.”
“Yeah, I’m off duty,” he said. “I could use a beer.”
She retrieved the dark brown bottle from the place in the fridge where she’d kept the kind of beer he liked, popped the cap off it, and returned to the living room to hand it to him.
He took a long swallow. “This hits the spot,” he said. “It’s been a long day.”
Heather flopped down on the couch next to the armchair he’d taken. “Because of the Verna Dixon case?” she asked.
He nodded and took another long swallow.
“Are you getting anywhere with it?”
“Not really,” he said. “Verna Dixon was a nice woman that no one should have wanted to kill.”
“That’s what I kept hearing from everybody I talked to.” Heather put her bare feet up on the coffee table and slouched into her favorite pose.
“Apparently, it was true,” he said. “She volunteered at the hospital and at Caring Hearts. She attended First Baptist Church every Sunday. Right side, third row back.”
“You talked to her pastor?
”
“Rev. Davis. He said she always had a smile on her face. Was as active as she could be with the church’s various ministries to the sick, and overseas missionaries, and all that.”
“Nobody should have wanted to kill her,” she mused aloud. “But even if nobody should have wanted to kill her, obviously, someone did want to. So have you come up with any potential suspects?”
“A few. Nothing conclusive. People who might have had a motive. But did they? They all say no.”
Cadbury Creme Murder Page 4
