A Murder in Helvetica Bold

by Jessa Archer

  “So?”

  She threw up her hands. “So. Maybe he’ll take you out sometime.”

  I laughed and took a bite of the salad. “Maybe. We’re not twenty-five anymore. Or forty, for that matter.”

  “Any big stories this week?” she asked.

  “Bake sale down at the community center to raise funds for that gazebo they want to put in the park. Pretty hot ticket.”

  “I’m sure that will have copies flying off the shelves.”

  “Know of anything else? Maybe a planned jewel heist?”

  Wren shook her head. “I wish I did. There aren’t even any new obituaries to send you this week. It’s like everyone in Thistlewood just decided not to die.”

  I laughed. “Good for them, I guess. Bad for business, though.”

  “It is what it is.”

  Wren’s table sits in a little nook overlooking the front garden below. We chatted about everything and nothing, and when we finished our lunch, she said, “Wait here, I’ll be right back. You’re going to love it!”

  She returned a few seconds later with something hidden behind her back. When she reached the table, she presented it with a flourish—a brown cap like the ones newsboys used to wear when they hawked papers on city sidewalks. The fabric was warm and rough against my palm, instantly conjuring up images of busy streets, bells ringing, and young voices yelling, Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

  I did love it. While I didn’t know if I would ever wear it, I loved it just the same. Cassie would certainly get a kick out of it.

  “Put it on,” Wren said. She didn’t wait for me, but instead grabbed the hat from my hand and placed it atop my head. And although it had looked a bit small, it was actually a perfect fit.

  I stepped back and turned around in a full circle to model it for her. “How do I look?”

  “Like a professional,” she said, her dark eyes shining. “I’m so proud of you. You’ve been hit with a lot in the past year, and you’ve faced all of it with such strength.”

  “Well, I couldn’t have done it without—”

  My words were cut short by a shrill scream from outside. I followed Wren’s gaze to the window. The door to Edith Morton’s house next door was wide open. A small woman with fiery red hair spilled out onto the lawn. She was about my age, or maybe a bit older, but I don’t think she went to school here. I knew her face but couldn’t place her name.

  She turned and saw us at Wren’s window. By the time we made it downstairs and opened the door, she was standing on the walkway to Memory Grove. Her face was ashen as she clutched her chest.

  “Call the police,” she yelled, even though she was only a few feet away and we could have heard a whisper.

  Wren took a step forward, catching the woman as she stumbled and nearly fell into the bushes lining the front porch.

  “What’s wrong?” Wren asked.

  “She’s dead,” the red-haired woman wheezed. “Call the sheriff. Call an ambulance. Call somebody. Edith Morton is dead.”

  ✰ Chapter Three ✰

  The red-haired woman’s name hit me as I stood over Edith Morton’s body. Her name was Elaine Huckabee. And she was right. Edith was most certainly dead.

  Edith’s body was the first thing I’d seen when I stepped into the foyer, where she was crumpled like a pile of forgotten laundry at the bottom of the staircase. As I drew nearer, it had become clear that her neck was twisted at an odd angle. I wasn’t squeamish about crime scenes and dead bodies, having seen plenty of them while working at the News-Journal. Something about the woman’s expression chilled me, though. Her eyes were wide, staring straight at me, with her mouth partially open as if gasping in surprise.

  I looked past the body to the long wooden staircase, which had a carpeted runner going up the middle. Something was on the landing, and even though I knew I really shouldn’t, I stepped over the body and went up to investigate. The steps creaked beneath my shoes, doing everything in their power to alert the authorities to the fact that I was intruding on a crime scene. Or rather, a possible crime scene. The most plausible explanation was that Edith, who was in her eighties, had simply stumbled and fallen to her death. But something about the look of utter surprise on her face made it hard to accept that explanation. I thought there was a very good chance that she’d been pushed. For that matter, the killer might still be in the house.

  The last notion sent a surge of adrenaline through my veins, even though it seemed unlikely. Based on my previous experience, Edith had been dead for several hours, if not longer. Plus, Elaine Huckabee’s shriek would have chased away even the most dedicated of serial killers.

  When I reached the landing, I knelt down to inspect the shattered coffee cup at the edge of the stair runner. There were traces of a light-brown liquid among the shards of china. Not dark enough to be coffee. It might be tea, but if so, I believe Edith had added a little something to her cuppa—whiskey, judging from the scent.

  I startled at the sound of approaching sirens. They were very unnecessary at this point, since Edith was beyond help, but Wren wouldn’t have known that when she called 911. Hurrying back down the stairs, I stepped over Edith’s body and let myself out the front door.

  A police car screeched to a halt, half in Edith’s driveway and half in her front yard. It wasn’t just any cruiser. The word Sheriff was stenciled across the side in blocky green letters. I rolled my eyes, wishing it had been the deputy. Steve Blevins is a jerk.

  This assessment is based partly on my own high school experiences with him, back when he had a luxurious head of feathered blond hair, drove a cherry-red Camaro, and thought he was God’s most gracious gift to the girls at Thistlewood High. His rock-star tresses were long gone, and you never saw the man without a hat these days—either the cowboy style he wears on duty or a baseball cap if he’s not in uniform. This led me to suspect that his hair had given up trying to survive on a skull that thick. I’d bumped into Blevins a few times since returning to Thistlewood. The man’s personality hadn’t improved with age, and there was definitely no love lost between him and Ed. The fact that Steve’s son, Derrick, was the one who smacked into Ed like he was a roadside pinata had only complicated an animosity between the two men that spanned several decades.

  So, I avoided Blevins whenever possible. But like it or not, I was going to have to deal with him now. I decided not to mention my trip upstairs. If the information came to light, so be it, but I certainly wasn’t going to volunteer anything.

  “Ms. Townsend.” Steve nodded to me solemnly as he approached Edith’s door. I was pretty sure I detected a note of sarcasm, but it’s rare for him to say anything without a verbal sneer.

  “Sheriff,” I responded casually, as if there wasn’t a dead body lying only a few feet behind me.

  “You were inside?”

  He saw me coming out, so unless the door was a portal to an alternate dimension, he knew full well that I had been inside.

  “Yes.” I nodded toward Elaine, who was clinging to Wren like a piece of fruit that refused to give up the vine. “You’ll need to talk to her. She found the body.”

  Sheriff Blevins gave Elaine the briefest of glances. “Thanks,” he said wryly, “but I reckon I still know how to do my job.”

  That’s one of at least a dozen reasons I’ve never liked Blevins. His attitude sucks.

  “I’m going in,” he announced dramatically.

  “Okay. If you expect me to cover you, though, I’m afraid I’m not armed today.”

  He gave me a snide, half-second smile. “Still hilarious after all these years, Townsend. Guess your ex didn’t appreciate your biting wit?”

  Blevins disappeared inside, clearly pleased with himself for striking a low blow. Fifteen seconds later, he was back.

  “She’s dead.”

  “Really?” I stopped myself from rolling my eyes and calling him Captain Obvious.

  “Did you take pictures?” he asked as his gray eyes scanned my hands, pockets, and finally came to rest
on my head. It was at that moment that I realized I still had the brown newsboy cap on. Great.

  “Of course not,” I said. “That would be ghoulish. Edith deserves her privacy.”

  Blevins didn’t seem too concerned about that, however—he’d left the door wide open, and Edith’s body was clearly visible. I didn’t like seeing her that way. True, I’d barely known her, but still…she was a person with a right to basic dignity. Still, I found myself wishing I’d brought my phone so that I could have gotten a shot of the shattered cup at the top of the landing.

  “Are you certain?” Blevins asked. “No shots of the body for your little paper?”

  “Yes, I’m certain. I was only inside for a minute.” That was still far longer than Blevins was inside, but I decided it might be best not to mention that.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “You’re a reporter, Ms. Townsend. I was just making sure.”

  And that was the second reason I didn’t like the man—the way he said my last name. I hadn’t imagined it that time. He’d said the name Townsend like it was something foul he might find on the bottom of his shoe.

  “No, I did not take pictures.” I fully enunciated each word, speaking slowly and carefully to be sure that they penetrated. “And since it looks like you have work to do, I’ll leave you to it. You know where I am if you have any questions. Should I have Elaine stay at Wren’s until you get around to questioning the person who actually found the body?”

  Blevins nodded but didn’t say anything. He was already on his cell phone and walking back into the house.

  You’ll never be half the man Ed is, I thought as I picked my way back over to Wren’s yard, high-stepping a pile of broken branches that the county hadn’t bothered to pick up yet.

  “You need to stick around for a bit,” I told Elaine. “The sheriff wants to talk to you when he’s done over at Edith’s place.”

  Her face paled, which was saying something since she was already white as a ghost. “Me? Why me? I didn’t do anything.”

  “You’re the one who found the body,” I pointed out.

  She gripped Wren’s arm hard enough that I thought she was going to break it. “Did you hear that? They think I killed her.”

  That seemed like an odd thing to say. True, I’d been thinking that she might have been killed, but again, the simplest explanation was that Edith tripped and fell down the stairs. It’s a fairly commonplace accident for someone her age.

  And, personally, I’d be a lot more certain if not for the teacup. I wasn’t sure why it stood out to me at first, but then it hit me. If you’re holding a cup and you trip, the liquid goes flying out. But this spill seemed very contained. It looked more like she dropped it. In fact, if the edge of the teacup hadn’t landed on the section without carpet, it probably wouldn’t even have shattered at all.

  Gently, I began to pry Elaine’s bone-white fingers from Wren’s wrist. “No need to worry. It looks like an accident. Blevins just needs to get your statement.”

  “But what do I tell him?”

  I shrugged. “How about the truth?”

  Wren massaged her freed arm. “Maybe we should go inside and have some tea,” she said, looking pointedly at me. “I’m sure all of us could use it.”

  I got the unspoken message loud and clear. Please don’t leave me alone with the crazy lady.

  She didn’t need to beg. I would eventually need to interview Elaine for the paper anyway, and she might be more forthcoming before Blevins gave her the standard warnings about speaking to the press. Although he might not even do that given the likelihood that it was an accident.

  “That’s a good idea,” I said. “Come on, Elaine. Let’s go upstairs. I think you need to sit down for a bit. Catch your breath.”

  I’d worked on the editorial staff for the past eight years at the Trib, so it had been a while since I’d actually been out on a beat, interviewing witnesses and so forth. The shock was still new to Elaine, and I felt a little bad questioning her so soon. But interviews are an integral part of the job, and I was sure that I’d get clearer, more honest answers from her now over a cup of chamomile than I’d get if I tracked her down at home or work tomorrow. Even when people have nothing to hide, they often push traumatic events down into the recesses of their memory after a day or two.

  Wren’s kitchen was also comforting. Homey. If you could get past the fact that a funeral home lay just beneath the kitchen floor, that is.

  By the time tea was served, Elaine was visibly more relaxed. Her shoulders were no longer hunched, and the frown lines on her forehead had softened. Her hands still trembled slightly when she picked up the porcelain cup, but all in all, it was a dramatic improvement.

  Wren sat down next to her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Elaine shook her head, but then after a moment of staring into her tea, she began talking anyway.

  “I can’t believe she’s dead. When I got there, I rang the bell. Knocked on the door. And then I banged on it. She didn’t answer, so I tried the knob and it just opened up.” Elaine stopped and fearfully looked over at Wren. “Do you think I’ll get into trouble for that? You know, just waltzing right in like I owned the place?”

  Wren shook her head. “I don’t think so, sweetie. I’m sure the police will be glad you did. And I know Clarence won’t mind.”

  Clarence Morton was Edith’s son. Her only child. He was my age but still lived with her.

  Elaine’s eyes shot back and forth between the two of us. “Clarence?”

  “Yes. He’ll be glad you found her,” Wren said. “Especially since he’s out of town this week.”

  I doubt Elaine caught Wren’s tone. It wasn’t something that would be obvious to anyone who didn’t know her well, but Wren was leading Elaine somewhere. And something did seem off about Elaine’s reaction to Clarence’s name. It put her on edge again, although I guess that could simply be nervousness over having to talk to Clarence about his mom’s death when he returned.

  “Oh. He’s out of town?” Elaine asked.

  Wren nodded. “I saw him yesterday as he was loading up the car.”

  “Do you know where he went?” I asked.

  “Probably heading up to the mountains for a few days. He does that sometimes. He has a cabin up there.” Wren took a deep breath. “I think he needs a break every now and then. He’s never said anything specific, but I got the impression that Edith wasn’t all that easy to live with.”

  I took a sip of my tea. “What makes you say that?”

  Wren started to say something, then glanced at Elaine and seemed to think better of it. “Just a…feeling,” she finally said with a look in my direction that clearly said, I’ll tell you later.

  “That’s actually why I stopped by,” Elaine said, perking up a bit. “With Clarence out of town and all. I just wanted to check on Edith. Since she was all alone.”

  The sparkle from Wren’s eyes disappeared as one eyebrow arched slowly upward. “Really? That was nice of you.”

  Elaine stood and thanked Wren for the tea that she had hardly touched. “I need to go talk to Sheriff Blevins. And then I’m going home. It’s been a rough day.”

  Wren nodded. “Of course. Anytime. I’ll show you out.”

  But Elaine slipped through the kitchen door without waiting on Wren. She seemed to be in a hurry.

  I sighed and sat back in my chair as her footsteps echoed down the stairs. “Okay, so spill. Why do you think Edith was hard to live with?”

  “A bunch of things, really. Clarence has been wanting to sell the house and move out of town for years. Said he’d be happy to take Edith with him or find her an assisted-living place where she could socialize more. But she was adamant about keeping the house. Clarence must have pressed the point, though, because just last week there was a realtor sign in the yard. I watched Edith march down the sidewalk, yank it up, and stuff it in the trash can. She was yelling at him that she was changing her will, that he wouldn’t be able to sell th
e house even after she was gone.”

  “But why?”

  “No clue. Old people get set in their ways sometimes. It’s not a place that’s been in her family for generations or anything like that. Her ex-husband bought it when they moved here back in the 1950s. That was a few years before he left town.”

  I stared out the window, where Elaine was pacing the sidewalk, waiting for Blevins to get off the phone. “Did Elaine seem a little on edge to you when you mentioned Clarence’s name? I know she just found Edith dead, but that was odd. Plus, a minute ago she seemed surprised that Clarence was out of town, and then suddenly that’s the reason she was at Edith’s in the first place.”

  Wren grinned. “Okay, that was kind of mean of me. I set that trap on purpose. Elaine and Clarence have been sneaking around forever. The whole town knows it. I’m guessing it’s why she ended up divorced about two years back. And there’s only one reason they’re not together.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because Edith said she’d cut Clarence off without a dime if he married her. That’s why Elaine hated Edith Morton,” Wren said. “And Edith hated her right back.”

  ✰ Chapter Four ✰

  The Thistlewood Star’s front office is an unassuming single room attached to a large warehouse-like building behind it. Back in the day, Mr. Dealey and I spent most of our time back there in the press room, as we called it, setting the type, scanning the proofs. Then, each Tuesday evening, we’d print off a few hundred copies to deliver the next morning.

  These days, however, I do most of my work on my laptop here in the front room and rarely venture into the back. Stella is missing a few parts, one of which arrived in the mail today. There’s also a linotype machine that Mr. Dealey never got around to giving a name, to the best of my knowledge. I’m thinking I’ll stick with the Tennessee Williams theme and call it Blanche.

  Cassie might have been overstating things to say that I’m not a fan of change, but it was definitely true that I was more than a bit nostalgic for the old days. When I’d first started working at the Star, Jim Dealey would sit at the table in the back room with several cases of type sorts, which is what they call the individual metal letters, arrayed in front of him. He’d compose the paper, sliding each letter, spacer, and punctuation mark onto a metal composing stick. When one line of type was arranged, he’d move on to the next, sometimes working from written notes, and sometimes setting the type on the fly as he wrote the story. I always found that kind of amazing. Like most people who have grown accustomed to computers with backspace and delete buttons, I’m used to ripping out words or even entire sentences. Mr. Dealey rarely changed anything.