by Kylie Logan
I rolled my eyes. Which would have had a bit more of a dramatic effect if I hadn’t been making a left-hand turn at the same time. “If we’re talking subtle, you know Kaz would be the wrong choice. Kaz is about as subtle as a tsunami. Besides…” We were at an intersection, and the traffic light turned red. I slowed to a stop and drummed my fingers against the steering wheel, debating the wisdom of saying any more. On one hand, if I told Stan what I’d been thinking, it would look like it mattered. On the other, if I didn’t say a word and it turned out that it actually did matter…
I grumbled under my breath, and when the light turned green, I eased the car forward. “He’s not answering his phone,” I said.
“You mean Kaz?” Stan scratched one finger along the side of his nose. “When did you call?”
“Thursday, and Friday.” I made a face, and as if it wouldn’t actually make me look pathetic—or worse, like some kind of stalker—I added quickly, “And Saturday and Sunday. It’s not like I care what he’s up to or anything—”
“I get it, no need to make excuses. You’re just curious.”
I would have been happy to settle for curious, but while it was the truth, it wasn’t the whole truth. If I didn’t admit it now, Stan would only figure it out himself eventually. And then the way I was behaving would look more suspicious than ever.
“I’m worried,” I said.
“About Kaz?”
OK, admitting that I cared enough to even think about Kaz was an odd thing to confess, but Stan didn’t have to make it sound like I was some sort of deviant.
“He hasn’t called,” I said. “He hasn’t stopped to see me.”
“I thought we decided that was a good thing.”
“It is. Except it’s weird. And unusual. And now he’s not answering his phone and…oh my goodness!”
These last words rushed out of me at the end of a breath of pure astonishment.
But then, we’d just driven past a gorgeous wooden sign painted blue with the town’s name highlighted in gold, and I’d just gotten my first look at Ardent Lake, Illinois.
Wide streets lined with trees that were just beginning to sprout and added touches of fresh green to the landscape.
Redbrick sidewalks.
Houses set beyond neatly trimmed lawns and bordered with bright swaths of spring flowers.
Daffodils in front of the first house.
Crocuses (in gorgeous shades of purple and yellow) in front of the next.
Early tulips—pink and white—bordering the front walk of the third.
In fact, everywhere I looked, there were bushes springing to life, and flowers poking their heads out of the earth and Victorian homes the likes of which I’d never seen anywhere.
“It’s like something out of a storybook! Look at the gingerbread on that house, Stan.” I let go of the steering wheel just long enough to point. “And the wraparound porch on the one next door. Honest to goodness…isn’t it amazing?”
“Humph.” Stan crossed his arms over his chest just as we drove past an ice cream parlor with a brightly colored red and white striped awning and one of those old-fashioned popcorn carts outside the front door. “All this Victorian bric-a-brac. Seems awful fussy, don’t you think?”
“Awfully wonderful.” My GPS told me to turn right, and I did, onto a street lined with houses that looked like they’d come out of the pages of an architectural magazine. Turrets, porches, more gingerbread…I am not usually one for frills, but it was all done so tastefully. And it was color-coordinated, too.
“You suppose they had some big town meeting and all went out and bought paint together?” Stan was thinking what I was thinking and he must have been looking where I was looking, too, at perfectly tended house after perfectly tended house, each painted a soft pastel color that coordinated—perfectly, of course—with the one next door to it. Soft gray accented with taupe and grape. Blush pink touched with white and steel. Lilac made to look all the more delicious with eaves painted pewter and a mauve gazebo out back.
“What amazes me is the way it’s all preserved and maintained,” I said. “Imagine every Victorian building in town restored to perfection. No wonder the historical society was so interested in Angela’s button string. It was made for a place like this, and it would obviously be appreciated by the folks here. The whole town is simply amazing. And you…” Again, I darted a look in Stan’s direction. “You’re not impressed.”
“Haven’t you learned anything about police work?” He shook his head sadly. “Never trust anyone or anything that’s perfect.”
Perfect.
Ardent Lake certainly was.
In a Stepford kind of way.
The thought hit just as I spotted the sign for Foder’s Funeral Chapel and a feeling like cold fingers on my neck sent a chill down my spine. I didn’t have time to indulge the fantasy, and maybe that was a good thing. Though the wake had started only a short while earlier, the parking lot next to the funeral home was crowded, and I waited for a car to leave so I could park, then took a good look at the building.
Foder’s was a sturdy building with a wide front porch and a roof that was topped with a cupola. Unlike the pastel colors we’d seen on so many of the homes we passed, the building was painted a deep, dusty blue, its somber hue in keeping with its purpose.
I tilted the visor so I could put on a fresh coat of lipstick, ran a brush through my hair to tame my shoulder-length brown curls, and when I got out of the car, I tugged the black suit jacket I’d worn with a knee-length black skirt and taupe-colored camisole into place.
Inside the building, Stan excused himself to find a men’s room (and to do a little sleuthing, too, I’d bet), and I stepped into my role as mole.
There was a sign hanging outside a room down the corridor and to my left: “Angela Morningside, Services Tomorrow, 10 A.M., First United Methodist Church of Ardent Lake.” And a long line waiting outside the door. I wasn’t surprised. Angela was middle-aged, which to me, meant she was probably still active and had a circle of friends. Plus, she owned a successful business. It stood to reason that she knew a lot of people. I took a quick look at the sober expressions of the people waiting in line ahead of me, wondering as I did which, if any, of them might be the murderer.
There was only one way to find out.
When the woman in line directly in front of me made eye contact, I pounced. In as polite and non-mole-like a way as possible, of course.
I introduced myself, and made sure I mentioned my button connection to Angela.
The woman, older than me by ten years or so and neatly dressed in a short-sleeved black dress decorated with tasteful pink and blue flowers, lit up like a Christmas tree and stuck out a hand to pump mine.
“Susan O’Hara, and isn’t this a piece of good luck. I didn’t expect you to be here, of course. But I was hoping.” It seemed Susan was good at reading blank expressions, because she took one look at mine and laughed in the uncomfortable way people do when they realize they may have committed a social gaffe. “I’m sorry, I’m not making a whole lot of sense. But then, I haven’t been thinking clearly. I mean, not since I heard the terrible news about Angela. It’s hard…” Her voice broke, and she turned toward the window to our right, and in the light that filtered through the lace curtains, I realized I’d been wrong about Susan.
Not in her forties. She was fifty at least. There was a network of crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes, and her ashen hair was streaked with more silver than I’d noticed at first. Her lips were pinched and dry and her fingernails were chewed to the quick.
She pulled a tissue out of her purse and touched it to her eyes. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve never been to the wake of a person who was…” Her voice dipped even lower as if she knew something no one else there at Foder’s knew. “You know, someone who was murdered. It’s all too horrible to even think about.”
I was about to say something noncommittal in agreement when, behind us, the front door opened and spanked s
hut and a group of women walked in.
Susan’s eyes were green, and not the least bit attractive when she shot a look over my shoulder. It was such a change from the cordial way she’d been looking at me, I couldn’t help wondering what was up.
Reminding myself I needed to be as inconspicuous as possible, I turned around to look where Susan was looking at.
The three newcomers were all younger than Susan and more stylishly dressed. The one in the middle, a petite woman with spiky red hair and wearing tall stilettos and big jewelry, made such an effort to keep her eyes on her companions and not look at the line ahead of her, I had no doubt she was the one Susan wasn’t happy to see.
Apparently, the feeling was mutual.
Interesting, I told myself, turning back around and keeping my expression blank.
Interesting, and probably completely irrelevant.
Susan wadded her tissue into a ball and shoved it in her purse.
“You were the one who was doing the appraisal for Angela, right?” she asked. “In Chicago? I wonder…Do you think…I mean, do you have any idea if they’ll still let us have it?”
Oh, how I hate it when I feel I’m out of the loop! Right about then, I not only was out of it, I wasn’t even sure where the loop was.
Apparently Susan realized it because after we inched forward and closer to the door to the room where Angela’s coffin was displayed, she offered a small smile.
“I mean the police, of course,” she explained. “Do you think they’ll still let us have the charm string?”
“I can’t say what the police might do.” I congratulated myself, spoken in true mole fashion. “But why—”
“I’m being such an airhead!” Susan riffled through her purse, then handed me a business card. “I’m the curator,” she explained before I’d even had a chance to read the ecru card tastefully printed with sepia ink. “Of the Ardent Lake Historical Museum.”
Now it all made sense! I tucked the card in my own purse for future reference, and considered what I could—and couldn’t—tell Susan. I decided to start with the basics. That is, the information that had been included in all the newspaper and TV accounts of Angela’s murder in the first place.
“I’m afraid the charm string was seriously damaged when Angela was attacked,” I said.
Susan gulped. “Then it’s true? What I heard on TV? About Angela being…choked…with it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
She slid me a look. “And the buttons?”
“I can just imagine how anxious you were to put the charm string on display.” How’s that for a slick way to sidestep a direct question? “Angela said so many wonderful things about your museum, I’m hoping I have a chance to stop there before I have to get back to Chicago. What other kinds of buttons do you have on display?”
“Buttons?” Top lip curled ever so slightly, Susan backed up and gave me a look. “As a matter of fact, we don’t have any. I know buttons are your business, but the fact is, our visitors aren’t exactly interested in things like buttons. Or in much of anything else of historical value for that matter. My goodness, I don’t think there would be a museum here in Ardent Lake at all if it wasn’t for Ben.”
I don’t think I was making much of an impression. I mean, what with looking confused all the time. Lucky for me, Susan was a kind woman. She didn’t hold it against me. Or if she did, at least she didn’t let on.
In fact, she laughed, then realized it wasn’t an appropriate sound in a place like that, and pressed her fingers to her lips.
We inched forward in line before we stopped to wait some more. “Thunderin’ Ben Moran,” she explained. “I should have remembered you’re not from around here so you might not know. Why, Ben’s the closest thing we have to a celebrity in these parts. But then, pirates have that whole wild and crazy persona going for them.”
I had never associated northern Illinois—or any other part of the state—with pirates, and I told Susan so.
“Well, you’re just going to have to stop by the museum and see. We’ll change your mind, and your ideas about Great Lakes history.”
We moved forward again. We were getting closer to paying our last respects to Angela, and here, we could hear the hushed organ music being piped in through the sound system.
I made sure I kept my voice even lower when I got the conversation back on track. “The police have recovered the buttons from the charm string.”
“All of them?” Susan seemed honestly surprised. Was it because she knew there were so many buttons to begin with? Or did she know two of them were missing?
Ridiculous.
I answered my own question. As far as I knew, Susan was just a museum curator who had nothing to gain from Angela’s death. In fact, she had something to lose.
The charm string.
“You said you didn’t have any buttons in your museum.” I pretended to think this over. “Your patrons must have really been looking forward to having the charm string on display.”
Again, Susan’s gaze flickered over my shoulder and a small smile eased her expression. “Well, it was something of a coup,” she confided. “Angela wasn’t the easiest person in the world to work with. But then, you probably already know that.”
I didn’t, but I didn’t let on. Instead, I nodded. “You’re talking about her belief in the supernatural.”
“Oh, that!” I had a feeling if we were anyplace else, Susan would have thrown back her head and laughed. The way it was, she kept her cool and simply smirked. “That was one thing, of course, and let’s face it, we’re logical, intelligent women. We both know how pathetic it is for anyone to believe that kind of hogwash. Imagine a woman basing her life on horoscopes and psychic predictions! That’s just another thing that proves how unstable she was.”
“And the other thing?”
Susan shifted her purse from one shoulder to the other and bent her head closer to mine. “Well, I just assumed that, working with Angela, you knew how flighty she was. Honestly, I’m not at all surprised by what happened to Angela. Not that I’m saying she deserved it or anything. Don’t get me wrong. But facts are facts, and the facts about Angela are impossible to ignore.”
We were at the threshold of the room bathed in a soft glow of pink light. Against the far wall there was a veritable sea of white and pink flowers surrounding a white coffin. Thankfully, it was closed.
Susan glanced at the coffin and at the short, chubby guy who stood near it, quietly chatting with each visitor. In just a moment, it would be her turn to offer her condolences.
“Angela’s cousin,” she said, indicating the short man in the brown suit. “Charles. The only family she had.”
“And the one who inherits.”
Susan’s sharp look reminded me this wasn’t exactly the time—or the place—for comments like that. At least if you’re just supposed to be a button dealer who is definitely not investigating a murder.
I smiled by way of apology. “Sorry. I’ve been watching too many old movies.”
“You’re not too far off base.” We moved forward again. Susan would be the next person to speak to Charles. “Well, you didn’t hear it from me,” Susan said, “but I always thought he was jealous. You know, of everything Angela got when their great-aunt died.”
“And how did Angela feel about all that?”
The man in line in front of Susan finished talking to Charles and she moved up to take his place, but not before she whispered, “Angela? The woman was a certified nutcase.”
Chapter Seven
IF STAN HAD BEEN BACK IN CHICAGO PLAYING POKER, he would have gladly stayed up until what he considered the wee hours. That is, ten or eleven. The way it was, by eight, we’d finished dinner at a small but charming (naturally) restaurant in the heart of Ardent Lake’s small but charming (naturally) downtown, and he grabbed a book and headed for the communal library/coffee room at the B and B where we were staying. (I’m not even going to bother to mention how charming the B and B was; su
ffice it to say that it was called The Victoria Inn, and lived up to its regal moniker.)
As it turned out, that reservoir draining project Stan had read about in the newspaper back in Chicago was happening not far away, and one of the engineers working on it was also a guest at the B and B that night. Stan was interested, and I had a feeling he wasn’t planning on reading as much as he was hoping to bump into the engineer and ask a lot of questions.
The night was mild, and in the distance, I heard the first of the spring peepers croaking out their love songs. I told Stan I’d see him in the morning, grabbed a jacket, and went for a walk.
I have to make something perfectly clear here. I love Chicago just as much as I love buttons. The city is in my blood. I swear, my heart beats to the sounds of traffic on Michigan Avenue.
But I have to confess something else, too.
Though the peace and quiet of Ardent Lake weren’t nearly as thrilling as the buzz of the big city, after a block of strolling, I found myself breathing easier. After two, I realized I had more spring in my step than I’d had since that morning I found Angela’s body in the courtyard.
Energized at the same time I was relaxed, I headed toward downtown—a whole three blocks from the B and B—and window-shopped at the antiques store, a women’s boutique, and a bakery. There wasn’t much on display in the bakery window aside from some cookies shaped like tulips, but what I saw looked so scrumptious, I promised myself a trip back the next day. I ambled through the neatly tended park smack in the center of town, and when I realized there was a canopy of stars overhead the likes of which we never see in Chicago, I sat on the steps of a white gazebo, tipped back my head, and decided right then and there that there was a lot to be said for small town living and the kind of peace and quiet broken only by the occasional swoosh of a car passing the park.
That, and the noise of a twig snapping now and again as someone slipped through the darkness.
Suddenly alert, I sat up like a shot. There were showy Victorian lampposts up and down the walkway, and if I leaned forward and squinched up my eyes, in their dim light, I could just make out a figure scooting from shadow to shadow.
