A Bad Reputation

by Jane Tesh

  “I have mixed feelings. On one hand, she’s very sweet and seems to have honestly been in love with Wendall, but on the other, she’s got quite a scheme going. I’ve spoken with her ex-husbands. Their only complaint is she was too expensive to keep, so they divorced her, not realizing this was her plan all along.”

  “Well, I want to make certain her plan did not include murder. The ex-husbands are all still alive, which is a point in her favor—a very tiny point. The next time you see her, remind her to stay in town. Anything else you can tell me?”

  I told him about finding the gold button behind the gallery and how that clue fizzled out, and I told him about my search for the dark blue Honda.

  “I can tell you that one,” he said. “Bea Ricter drives a dark blue Honda.”

  “I thought she had a gray VW.”

  “That’s her son’s. He’s been driving her around while the Honda’s in the shop. Any particular reason you need to know about that car?”

  But when did it go into the shop? I’d save that question for now. “I’m trying to establish who was at the gallery. That clears that up, thanks.”

  “I don’t have any leads on who threw that brick in your window, Madeline. I hope you’re taking my advice.”

  “I’m at home and Jerry’s with me.”

  “Good. Stay in touch.” He hung up.

  Next, I called Nell. “Nell, what can you tell me about Daniel Richards?”

  “Owns half of downtown,” she said.

  “Did he sell the store to Wendall?”

  “Yep. Well, actually, his son did. Old Mr. Richards hasn’t been himself for a couple of years now.”

  “Daniel Junior has power of attorney?”

  “Yeah, he handles everything.”

  “Did anyone else want the building? I know Pamela did, but she couldn’t afford it.”

  “You’d have to ask Daniel Junior. His number should be in the book.”

  It was. When I reached Daniels Richards Junior, I first asked if he knew about a letter his father had written to Pamela Finch regarding renovations to her dress shop.

  “Yes,” he said. “I told Ms. Finch if she had proof my dad gave her permission, then I’d abide by that proof. Dad owned a lot of property in town, and he was notorious for making promises and deals he forgot about even before the Alzheimer’s set in.”

  “Did you or your father sell a building to Wendall Clarke to use for an art gallery?”

  “Yes, the old Arrow Insurance building.”

  “Was anyone else interested in purchasing that building?”

  “I’d have to check my records. Can I get back to you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I should have that information for you by this afternoon.”

  I hung up and went to see how the football game was progressing. It was a good thing there were plenty of leaves on the ground because at one point, Austin made a daring move, tripped Jerry, and Jerry ended up flat on his back. He laughed and raised his arms over his head in mock terror.

  “Truce! Don’t hit a man when he’s down!”

  “Yah! Die!” Austin said and made a wrestling leap. Jerry rolled out of the way, jumped up, and kicked Austin in the rear.

  “You die!”

  “Faker!”

  “Sucker!”

  As long as no one broke anything, I usually ignored all the rough housing, but something tickled my brain. I’d been supposing that someone tall hit Wendall on the forehead, causing him to fall. What if Wendall was already on the ground when the murderer delivered the final blow? What if he’d been tripped or pushed and then killed?

  I gave Chief Brenner another call and asked if the medical examiner’s report was complete. He was able to tell me Wendall Clarke had died as a result of the blow to the forehead, and there were other bruises and marks on the back of his head from the fall. But the examiner had admitted it would be difficult to tell which came first. I thanked the chief and hung up. I’d suspected Larissa and Pamela because both women were tall enough to hit Wendall’s forehead. I’d dismissed both Flora and Bea as too short. Could Flora be the killer? Bea had the strength to throw a brick hard enough to smash a window, so could she topple Wendall?

  I turned my attention back to Jerry and Austin. Jerry was taller, but Austin had more bulk. On the alert for Austin’s moves, Jerry could easily evade him. If Bea took Wendall by surprise and cannonballed out of the dark, Wendall might not have had a chance to defend himself.

  Now I needed proof that Bea was at the gallery that night and had somehow avoided being seen by Larissa, Pamela, Jerry, Nell, and myself. Ginger Alverez had said she and Bea were together from six until almost eleven that night. A visit to Ginger was in order.

  I stepped out the kitchen door. “Jerry, I’m going into town. Do we need anything?”

  Austin roared and charged. “Death move two thousand!”

  “Uno minuto, Señora,” Jerry said and side stepped, toreador style. As Austin whizzed past, he gave him another kick. “Ole!”

  “Ow! How do you do that?”

  “Middle child, two brothers.” He turned to me. “Don’t forget the tires.”

  With everything that was going on, I had completely forgotten I’d told Jerry I would get the tires for the Mazda. “Okay, I’ll stop by Fred’s on my way. Anything else?”

  “Austin’s going to need a new rear end.”

  “Ha, ha.” Austin charged again.

  ***

  Fred’s Garage was down a twisty little country road. One bent metal sign pointed toward the garage while another pointed toward a junkyard filled with scraps of cars, trucks, buses, and even an old fire truck. Fred came out to meet me, a dark little man with grease in every wrinkle. He wiped his hands on his overalls.

  “What can I do for you, Madeline?”

  “Jerry said you had some tires on sale. We need two.”

  “I can fix you up right away. Come on in. Dennis! Take care of Mrs. Fairweather’s car. Won’t be but a minute, Madeline.”

  I gave the keys to the eager young man who trotted up and followed Fred into his shop. The waiting room consisted of cracked leather chairs, an ancient gumball machine, two chipped end tables covered with old hunting and fishing magazines, and a neon sign advertising Laney’s Bar and Grill. I noticed the other cars Fred’s employees were working on. One was a white station wagon, one was a maroon-colored Buick, and the other was a dark blue Honda.

  “Whose car is that?” I asked.

  “The Honda? Belongs to Bea Ricter. Got an oil leak.”

  “When did she bring it in?”

  Fred screwed up his face in thought. “Lemme see. Thursday it was. Told her I couldn’t get to it till today. Had to find a part.” His phone rang, and he went to the counter to answer it.

  If Bea didn’t bring the Honda to the garage until Thursday, then it could’ve been in the parking lot Wednesday. I sat looking out the dusty window and wondering until Dennis brought me my keys and said I was good to go. I asked him how he knew oil was leaking from the Honda.

  “Oh, that’s easy,” he said. “It was leaving big old puddles of oil everywhere.”

  ***

  I looked for big old puddles of oil in the parking lot behind the gallery and found them. I asked the owner of the gift shop if she remembered where the Honda was parked. She pointed out the same spot where I found the stains.

  Next I went to the Chicken House, a fast food restaurant across from the Wal-Mart store. I’d met Randi Peterson, the young woman behind the counter, when she had been a contestant in the Miss Celosia Pageant, part of my very first successful investigation. Randi’s brown curls were secured beneath a Chicken House cap. Her carefully plucked eyebrows always gave her an expression of surprise.

  “Hi, Madeline. Welcome to the Chicken House. Would you like to try our W
ings ’N’ Rings Special today? Five chicken wings and five onion rings plus a drink for three fifty.”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I hope you can help me with something.”

  Her brows went up even further. “Are you on a case?”

  “Yes. Were you working Wednesday night around six?”

  She rolled her eyes and sighed. “I work every night. I’m beginning to believe my mom was right when she said I should’ve finished high school.”

  “Do you know Bea Ricter and Ginger Alverez?”

  “I don’t know Ginger Alverez, but isn’t Bea Ricter a little squatty woman who always looks angry?”

  “That describes her pretty well. Was she here that night?”

  Randi pursed her lips in thought. “Well, I’m sure I’d remember her because she’s kind of rude. And she dresses like she’s been digging in the garden all day.”

  “Ginger’s a little shorter than me with reddish hair, pale skin, and freckles.”

  Randi shook her head. “Like I said, I don’t know her.” She turned to address a co-worker who passed behind her with a load of fries. “Bea Ricter hasn’t been in all week, has she?”

  “No, thank goodness,” the other girl said. “Grumpy old cow.”

  “Could she have gone through the drive-thru?” I asked.

  “I’ll see.” Randi went to the drive-thru register and talked for a few minutes with the young man stationed there. When she came back, she said, “Josh was on the window Wednesday night and says she didn’t come through there. He knows her, too, because she’s never happy with her order and always wants extra ketchup or sauce, or something’s not right. She usually comes in to eat, though.”

  “Thanks, Randi. That’s very helpful.”

  “Did she commit a crime?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Does it have something to do with that man that got killed at the art gallery? Everybody’s saying his ex-wife did it.”

  “I’m trying to find out the truth.”

  Now I needed to know why Ginger Alverez had lied.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ginger lived in a particularly ugly green brick split-level near the elementary school. She was hanging clothes on a line in her backyard: large jeans I assumed belonged to Mr. Alverez, some child-sized jeans and t-shirts, towels, and dishcloths. She gave me a wary look.

  “Oh, hello, Madeline.”

  “Got a minute?”

  “No, actually, I’m kind of busy.” She took another towel from her laundry basket.

  “This won’t take long.”

  “I don’t have time for this. Not everyone likes to answer your questions, you know.”

  Hmm, she was mighty defensive. Wonder why? “I don’t ask hard questions.”

  “Does anyone ever tell you they don’t like you snooping around town all the time?”

  “Yes, they do, but I’ve gotten results.”

  She kept her eyes on the clothespins as she hung up the towel. “What do you want?”

  “The other day, you told me you and Bea had dinner at the Chicken House and then spent the rest of Wednesday evening here at your house playing cards.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why did you cover for Bea?”

  “Cover?” Her hand shook as she reached for another towel. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Bea has quite a reputation at the Chicken House. The folks there say she hasn’t been in all week.”

  “I guess I meant to say Deely’s.”

  “I guess she wasn’t at your house, at all. She told me the two of you went to the Chicken House around six, but at six o’clock the owner of the gift shop behind the gallery saw Bea’s car parked in their parking lot. For some reason, Bea was still at the gallery. Where were you?”

  “I—she might have come over later.”

  “What’s the problem? What does she have on you?”

  She started to hang up the towel and then dropped it back into the basket. “Just leave it alone, Madeline.”

  “Well, I can’t,” I said. “I’m trying to find out who killed Wendall. I don’t think you want to stand in the way of a murder investigation, do you? Or are you supposed to take the fall for Bea?”

  She stared at me. “Take the fall? I had nothing to do with it! I didn’t even know Wendall that well! He was three years ahead of me.”

  “And now he’s dead. I want to know what happened. Can you help me or not?”

  “I don’t know how in the world I could help. I had nothing to do with that.”

  Something told me this was a lot more serious than dead wood versus ping-pong balls. Then a gust of wind made Mr. Alverez’s jeans snap, and I had an idea. I remembered the argument between Ginger and Bea and how Bea had threatened her to be quiet unless she wanted Bea to mention “you know what.” Ginger had shut up pretty quickly. “That wild night Bea mentioned in Pamela’s store. Did something happen at the crafts show you don’t want your husband to know?”

  She answered way too fast. “No, of course not.”

  What else could it be? “Bea said everyone would be surprised about you if she spilled the beans. You said you had something on her, but she implied she had the real dirt. What’s going on? Why did you let her win that argument?”

  She tried to get her voice under control. “It was a dreadful mistake. I’d had too much to drink.”

  “You got a little too friendly with someone?”

  “I only meant to admire his macramé! Things just got out of control.”

  “Bea needed an alibi, or she’d tell your husband.”

  Another nod. Another sob. “She said if anyone called, tell them she was at my house all evening. I didn’t see any harm in it.” She wiped her eyes on the edge of her t-shirt. “Are you saying she killed Wendall? She couldn’t have. Why would she kill him? She was going to have her pictures in the gallery. Even I was going to have my ping-pong birds in the gallery.”

  “I don’t know why. Unless she was desperate to run the place.”

  “Pamela wanted it, too. And what about Larissa? She was there that night and ran away. Or Flora? Where was she? What was she doing that night? And what am I going to do?”

  “The first thing you need to do is tell your husband what happened. Then Bea won’t have any power over you. Did you see her at all Wednesday night?”

  “No.” She brushed the last tears away. “I am not taking any sort of fall for anyone, Madeline.”

  “You won’t have to,” I said.

  ***

  I didn’t recognize the car in my driveway, but I should have known that someone named Big Mike would drive a shiny black Hummer. He and Jerry were sitting on the porch, and he was indeed big, so big he didn’t fit in any of the rocking chairs, but sat on the top porch step as if it were a royal throne. When he and Jerry stood to greet me, Jerry barely came up to Big Mike’s shoulder. In honor of Big Mike’s visit, Jerry had on his gold tie with a pattern of little black and white dice. Big Mike wore an expensive-looking suit, a silk tie, and fancy shoes that must have taken an Everglade of alligators to create.

  His voice was a deep rumble. “So this is the woman who finally caught you, eh, Jerry? Such a pleasure to meet you, Madeline.”

  When Jerry first mentioned Big Mike, I imagined someone much rougher, more like a gangster, with squinty eyes and a scar. Big Mike’s wide face was surprisingly bland, an asset in a con man, I thought, and his brown hair was cut short. He looked like any other successful business man.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” I said. “Thanks for coming.”

  Jerry pulled up another rocking chair for me, and we all sat down. “Well, I was curious,” Big Mike said. “I hadn’t heard the name Pamela Finch in a long time, and if Honor Perkins is mixed up in this, we have a problem.”

  If Honor was a probl
em for someone like Big Mike, our troubles just multiplied.

  “What can we do?”

  “Jerry and I have been talking about that. What exactly did she tell you about this sapphire ring?”

  “She said you and Pamela Finch had once been an item, and you gave Pamela a pink star sapphire ring.”

  “That part is true.”

  “She said you wanted that ring back, but you didn’t want to contact Pamela yourself. She asked Jerry to get the ring so she could return it to you, and you’d forgive all her debts.”

  “Here’s where her little story falls apart. Honor owes me nothing.”

  “And the ring is worth a lot of money,” Jerry said.

  Okay, what was Honor’s game? “So why didn’t Honor pull some sort of scam and get the ring herself?”

  “That is the part neither Jerry nor I understand,” Big Mike said. “She must want something else.”

  Oh, I had a good idea what she wanted. “Pamela does have the ring, or at least the stone. It’s part of a collage she made. I have no plans to steal it, though.”

  Big Mike looked thoughtful. “You won’t have to.”

  Before I could worry about what he meant by that, a timer went off in the kitchen. Jerry hopped up. “That’s lunch.”

  Big Mike watched him go and then turned his calm gaze to me. “I understand you’re a private investigator. Do you find enough work here in Celosia?”

  “Strangely enough, I do. Right now, I’m investigating the murder of a wealthy art gallery owner. Pamela Finch is a possible suspect.”

  “Pam was a sweet girl. I doubt she’d murder anyone.”

  “I’ve pretty much omitted her as the killer.”

  “Good.” His gaze took in the surrounding fields. “Jerry says he’s very happy here.”

  “I’m hoping he’ll settle down.”

  “One of the best I ever taught, but there comes a time when one must stop. I imagine you want to start a family.”

  “We’re in negotiations.”

  He chuckled. “He said something like that. You know his family life wasn’t the best.”

  “That’s why he took up with you, right?”