by J. R. Ripley
“Miss Simms!” a voice hissed.
I spun around. Walter Kimmel stuck his head up over the ivy-covered brick wall of the patio. “Hi, Walter.”
“What are you doing here?” Walter’s wavy gray hair was disheveled and his nose was red. His voice came out in stage whisper. “Are you here to see Clara in some regard?”
I shook my head no and moved closer to the wall. “Actually, I wanted a word with you.”
Walter’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down a couple of times. “Whatever for?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Bessie Hammond.”
Walter shot a worried glance in through the sliding glass door, where a small dinette set and a brass chandelier were visible. “You’d better come in. There’s a door on the other side of the patio.” He waved me around and let me in.
He held a martini glass in his left hand. “Care for a drink?”
“No, thanks.” I looked around. “Where is Clara?” It was going to be awfully difficult to interrogate Walter about his possible affair with Bessie Hammond if his wife was lurking nearby. Men were funny that way.
“Bridge club.” He glanced at his watch. “She’ll be back any time.” He stood on his tiptoes and looked over the wall in the direction of the main building. “I’d rather she didn’t find you here when she returns. Clara can be a bit difficult about these things.”
“I’ll bet. Don’t worry, I won’t be long.”
“Wonderful.” Walter offered me a seat in one of two webbed chaise lounges and took the other for himself. He crossed his legs and sipped. “Such a terrible, terrible thing about Bessie.” He plucked at his trousers with his free hand.
“You know,” I said, “everybody keeps saying that, yet somebody disliked her enough to murder her. Any idea who?”
Walter raised his martini to his lips and gulped. “Karl Vogel tells me the police are no closer to solving her murder now than they were at the beginning. Karl says Greeley hasn’t been able to pin down the time of death to more than a three-hour window.”
“Three hours. Anybody in Ruby Lake could have gone out to the woods, snapped Bessie Hammond’s neck, and gotten back to whatever they’d been doing before, in that amount of time.” I leaned toward Walter. “Even you.”
“Me?” Walter rested his glass between his legs and tugged at his shirt collar. “What a funny thing to say, Amy. Why would I, I mean, what reason might I have had to want to murder Bessie?” He feigned amusement, but I could see I was getting to him.
I shrugged. “You were having an affair with her. You wanted to break it off. Bessie didn’t.”
“That’s preposterous!” Walter started to rise, spilling his drink all over his lap. “Damn!” he cursed and wiped madly at his trousers. He crossed the small space and slammed his empty glass down on the glass-top patio table. “I’m not sure I like what you are implying. What right have you to come here to my home and—”
“Walter, please,” I said, “I don’t mean to upset you. Sit.” I patted his empty chaise lounge. “Please.”
Walter frowned, hesitated, then sat heavily.
“Listen, Walter. I know that you and Bessie were”—how should I put this?—“involved. I’m sure you felt bad about it.” Walter’s head hung to his chest. “You wanted to break it off.”
He looked at me now, forlorn and weary. “I did. I really did.”
“But Bessie wasn’t having it.”
“No,” confirmed Walter, his voice a mere whisper.
I could feel my heart pounding against my chest. This was harder than I had expected. “Did you have it out with her?”
Walter smiled grimly. “More than once.” His eyes were on a housefly that had discovered his martini glass and was crawling round and round its edge.
“Did Clara know about the affair?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
Walter shook his head fiercely and glared at me. “Yes. I’m sure. And I see no reason for you to tell her.” There was a threatening undercurrent in his tone.
We sat in silence for a moment, nothing but the two of us, the housefly, and a buttery yellow swallowtail butterfly that skipped silently over the bed of Shasta daisies along the edge of the bungalow. “Where were you the morning Bessie was killed, Walter?” It was an awkward question but I had to know.
“Why are you asking me all these questions?” Walter said, belligerently. “Why aren’t you asking Ed Quince where he was and what he knows about Bessie’s murder?”
So, Walter knew about Bessie and Ed? How did that make him feel? Of course, Ed said he and Bessie had only gotten together once. Had that been the truth? “I did ask Ed.” I didn’t add that I’d found his pocketknife near the scene of the crime.
Walter frowned. “And what did he tell you?”
“He told me that he didn’t do it.”
Walter snorted.
“What about you, Walter?” I asked softly.
Walter opened his mouth to reply.
“He was with me,” a hard-edged woman’s voice replied.
I turned my head. Clara Kimmel stood in the open patio side door. Her hand was fisted around the strap of her black leather purse. She scowled at Walter. “Haven’t you had enough to drink? And what have you done to your trousers?”
“Sorry,” Walter mumbled.
“Go inside and change at once.”
Walter headed for the sliding door.
“And take your glass with you.”
“Yes, dear.” Walter, shoulders sloping, plucked up his empty martini glass and disappeared inside, pulling the door closed behind him.
I rose. “Hi, Clara. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”
Clara said frostily, “My husband was with me. At church. As we are every Sunday morning. You should try it yourself sometime. If Bessie Hammond had been there herself, worshipping instead of doing whatever she was doing out in McKutcheon’s woods, she might be alive now.”
“She might,” I couldn’t help saying, “but would that make you any happier?”
Clara opened her mouth to reply, then clamped it shut. She marched to the sliding glass door. Turning to face me, she snapped, “You can show yourself out!”
The glass door rattled as she pulled it open and quickly closed it again behind her.
23
I hurriedly left the patio. Poor Walter. I wasn’t any closer to knowing if he or his wife had been responsible for Bessie Hammond’s death, but those two needed some marriage counseling before one of them killed the other.
I headed for my van before Clara came at me with a frying pan or a twelve-gauge shotgun, but I hadn’t gone half a dozen paces when I heard a sound.
“Pssst! Pssst!”
I paused, frowning, and turned slowly.
Floyd Withers stood in the middle of the lawn outside the bungalow to the left of the Kimmels’. His hands were cupped around his mouth. “Amy!”
I hurried over. “Floyd.” I gave him a quick embrace. “What are you doing here?”
“Man, that was some hubbub.” Floyd laughed, keeping his voice low. He was dressed in baggy linen shorts, knee-high white socks, and a white VISIT RUBY LAKE T-shirt.
“You heard?”
“I think all of Rolling Acres might have heard!” Floyd’s eyes twinkled with delight. He pulled at my sleeve. “Come on, me and Karl are barbecuing on his patio.” That explained the hint of mustard on the tip of his mustache. “Join us.”
Floyd led me over to Karl’s bungalow. Karl, dressed identical to Floyd, with the exception of darker shorts and a KISS A COP apron tied behind his neck, was hovering like a mother hen over a stainless steel monster of a barbecue grill.
Karl plucked a wet cigar from between his lips. “Hiya, Simms. Come on in!” The ex-cop waved his greasy spatula in the air. “What’ll it be?”
Meat hissed on the grill. “What have you got?” Bits of cigar ash fell onto the meat. I decided to consider it seasoning.
“Burgers. If you want
yours medium rare,” he said, giving the half-dozen patties on the grill a quick flip, “there’s still time.”
Smoke filled the patio and billowed upward. “Let’s go with well-done,” I said, waving the smoke from my watering eyes. That would burn off at least some of the cigar ash residue. Karl’s patio was a mirror image of the Kimmels’, though his furniture was a notch better.
“Me and Karl always grill Friday afternoons when the weather’s good.”
“Management doesn’t mind?” I was surprised open flames were allowed in the retirement community. I sank into a cushioned wicker chair downwind and fanned my hand in front of my nose again. If the flames didn’t kill anyone, the fumes might.
“Sure they mind,” said Floyd, taking the seat beside me. He offered me a can of beer and I accepted.
“We ignore them,” Karl said.
“Yeah.” Floyd clinked cans with me. “We ignore them.”
I smiled and took a sip of cold beer. “I guess grilling on your patio whenever you feel like it is one of the perks of being a retired chief of police.”
“You betcha.” Karl unwrapped a plastic-wrapped bag of white burger buns and took one. He opened it on a melamine plate and slid a hot burger onto it. “Help yourself to the fixings.”
I rose and took my plate. “Thanks.” Ketchup, mustard, chopped onion, and pickles sat on a leaf extended from the grill. A big bowl of potato salad covered in plastic stood on the patio table. “Nice grill,” I said. Men have some weird genetic thing going on with grills. They like them big and they like them shiny. And they like them to be commented upon.
Karl grinned. “Thanks.” He handed off a double burger to Floyd. “Speaking of grills,” the former cop said, “that was quite a grilling you gave Walter Kimmel!”
Floyd snickered.
“You really heard that?” I blushed as I removed the plastic from the bowl, grabbed the big plastic spoon inside, and heaped some potato salad onto my plate. Had I been that loud? “I was trying to be discreet.”
“Ha! You are a lot of things, Amy.” Karl looked me over. “But discreet ain’t one of them!”
“We only caught the tail end where Clara was hollering at you,” explained Floyd, reclaiming his chair.
“But we surmised the rest.”
“The way the ground dips around here, it’s like being in an echo chamber or something,” Floyd put in. “You’d be surprised what a person can hear.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. I sat and bit into my burger. “Wow, this is delicious, Karl.”
“Thanks.” Karl hovered over the grill, half-eaten burger in one hand and greasy spatula in the other.
I gave them the gist of what I’d learned from Walter Kimmel and Ed Quince. I didn’t mention that I’d broken into—or at least, slipped into—Bessie Hammond’s house. Even ex-chiefs-of-police might not be willing to overlook that infraction.
“Church, you say?” That was Floyd.
“That’s what Clara told me, that she and Walter were attending services at the time Bessie was murdered.”
“They attend the same church as me.” Floyd was shaking his head. “I don’t recall either of them being in church last weekend.” He absently scratched behind his ear. “I don’t recall seeing Ed there either.”
“What about you, Karl?” I inquired. “Do you remember if they were there?”
“Not me,” Karl said with a chuckle. “I’m a bit of a heathen these days. I never did care for sitting in a pew.”
“What do you know about Gus McKutcheon, Karl?”
“Not a whole lot,” Karl admitted. “Old town family, everybody knows that. But I don’t know a darn thing about the kid. You want me to see what I can find out?”
I told him I would very much appreciate it. “How about Lana Potter?”
“Who?”
“The sexy new waitress over at Ruby’s Diner,” Floyd replied quickly. “I’ve met her. Wow.” He held out his empty plate and Karl obliged him with another burger. For a small fellow, Floyd had a big appetite. “She’s a real man-killer.”
“You may have hit it right on the nose, Floyd.”
“What do you mean?” Floyd squirted an extravagant amount of mustard on his burger patty.
I told Floyd and Karl how I suspected that Lana Potter and Gus McKutcheon were playing house. I added how Moire seemed be involved with him, too, and the way he’d practically taken over running her business.
Karl nodded thoughtfully. “And all the while, this McKutcheon fellow is cozying up to Moire Leora, too?”
“It looks that way, Karl.” I chomped down on my burger. “I don’t know a thing about her. Where does she live? Where did she come from? What’s going on with her and Gus?”
“Sounds like a real woman of mystery,” piped in Floyd.
Karl winked at me. “Don’t worry, if there’s any dirt to be found on this Lana woman, I’ll find it.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate it. I’m worried. I don’t want to see Moire get hurt.”
“She’s nice,” agreed Floyd.
We discussed Bessie’s murder some more. I’d hoped that Karl, as a former chief of police, might have heard something that I hadn’t, but it wasn’t the case. “Can either of you think of anyone else who might have wanted Bessie out of the way?”
“Well . . .” replied Karl.
“What?” I leaned forward, resting my empty plate on my lap.
“Well, it’s only a rumor, mind you. And I don’t know that it’s related. . .”
“Stop prevaricating and spit it out already,” Floyd scolded.
Karl fixed us with his gaze. “Some years ago, there was a rumor going around that Arthur Hammond—”
“Bessie’s husband?” I asked.
Karl nodded and continued. “Anyway, I heard tell that Arthur and Ms. Newsome had, well . . .” He wrapped his middle and index fingers together.
“Otelia Newsome and Bessie’s husband had an affair?” She had to be way younger than him.
Floyd nodded. “I heard that, too. I don’t know if there’s any truth to it.”
Karl’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Maybe there is and maybe there isn’t.” Karl scraped the grill with a steel brush as he spoke. “I tell you this though.” He aimed the brush at me and Floyd. “Arthur sure did like his chocolate.”
Otelia Newsome ran a chocolate shop. And maybe Bessie slept with Ed, Walter, and who knew who else to exact her revenge on her cheating husband? All well and good, but it didn’t get me any closer to solving who had killed Bessie herself. “What about Otelia’s husband?”
“Never married,” answered Karl.
“That’s right,” parroted Floyd. “She never married.”
Karl popped open a beer. Tiny bubbles spewed over his hand and he shook his wrist. “She always says she’s married to her business.”
“If what you say about Arthur and Otelia is true,” I said, “it would have given Bessie a reason to want Otelia dead, not vice versa.”
“The two women might have struggled,” Karl said. “In a fight, generally, there is your winner and there is your loser.”
“And Bessie might have been the loser,” I finished. Otelia Newsome was definitely the younger, stronger, and healthier of the two women. But after all these years, even if it was true, would a long-ago affair have led to a murder now?
Maybe. Bessie’s murder could easily have been a crime of passion; so many murders are. And passion can linger and simmer and stew for years and years.
“I hope Otelia didn’t kill anybody,” Floyd said. “I like her chocolate, especially the banana rum bonbons. They were my wife’s favorite, too.”
“Tell me,” I said, between sips of the beer I’d been nursing since arrival. “What do the two of you make of this whole widow-in-the-lake story?”
“My wife thought it was hooey,” Floyd said first. “I agree.”
Karl leaned back in his chair, fingering his now cold cigar. “I heard that back in the forties, aroun
d the time of World War II, Mary came up out of Ruby Lake for a little look-see.”
Despite myself, I felt the little hairs on my forearms rise. It must have been the cold brew. “You did?”
Karl nodded. “Probably nothing to it. It was a couple of fishermen who reported it, as I remember. One of them got so scared he fell out of their fishing boat and nearly drowned. At least, that’s the story I heard.” The ex-cop chuckled. “If you ask me, they were probably drunk and seeing ghosts in the fog.”
I told them how I’d been roped into going down to Ruby Lake Saturday morning to await Mary McKutcheon’s coming.
Karl chuckled. “If you do see Mary, tell her hello for me.”
If I did see Mary, I’d be hightailing it out of town. Next, I’d be having my head examined. “The two of you could come,” I suggested.
“Ha! You’re not dragging me down to the lake at five in the morning.” Floyd slopped a second or third helping of potato salad onto his plate. “I need my beauty rest.”
“Me either,” said Karl. “You can go looking for the widow in the lake on your own.”
“Is it just me or is this widow-in-the-lake tale bigger this year than ever before?” Floyd scratched the tip of his nose. “I’ve lived in Ruby Lake all my life and I’ve never seen such a to-do about it in the past.”
Karl agreed. “Same here. Something’s got folks stirred up this year more than ever. I’ve seen widow-in-the-lake T-shirts and souvenirs being offered at the shops, and some other fella and his wife selling MARY MCKUTCHEON—WIDOW IN THE LAKE labelled souvenirs, like mugs and bowls, from the back of their van.”
“Where was this?” I asked.
“Down by the lake. In the marina parking lot,” Karl explained. “Yeah, if you ask me, this whole widow-in-the-lake thing is nonsense. But if old Mary was to come back, now would be a good time,” he calculated. “She could really cash in on her star status.”
Floyd chuckled. “It couldn’t hurt to have a famous ghost in town. Might be good for everybody’s business.”
