by Mary Feliz
I put hot water on for tea and invited the officers to debrief in the kitchen. I sent the boys to bed, intending to stay and listen to what Stephen and the police had to say. But I couldn’t keep my eyes open. The adrenaline rush had worn off. Despite my anxiety and concern for my family and our home, the stress of it all had simply caught up with me. I was exhausted and for the moment, we were safe. I could get the nitty-gritty details from Stephen tomorrow. The predawn marching-band alarms would be going off way too early and I needed sleep if I was going to have any energy at all tomorrow to get to the bottom of what was going on in Orchard View.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Hey Hon,
Everything here is much as it has been. We’re all healthy and happy. How’s our “hospital guy” doing?
Love, Maggie.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
“Much as it has been?” That sounds ominous, considering everything that has happened since I left. That, combined with your short email, makes me think things aren’t going very well at all. Is everything OK?
Hospital Guy, Veejay, is improving. I may be home within the week. Being so far away is getting old, fast.
Love, Max
Sometime around two o’clock in the morning, both cats had curled under the covers seeking warmth and security.
By morning, I had to dig myself out of the cocoon of blankets the cats and I had created.
The temperature had dropped considerably overnight and there was a hint of the coming winter in the smell and feel of the air. It wouldn’t be long before it started raining and we’d need to turn on the heat. I wrote Get Furnace Checked on my pad.
I pulled on my uniform for chilly mornings: jeans, T-shirt, hooded fleece, wool socks, and sneakers. I fed the animals and let Belle out the back door after she’d eaten. Stephen, Munchkin, and a patrol officer were conferring near a police car that was parked next to our driveway near the barn.
I made coffee, heated milk for hot chocolate, and filled our insulated travel mugs. I toasted English muffins, spread them with almond butter, and added thin slices of apple to change things up a bit. We were getting tired of peanut butter on toast.
I pulled premade lunch bags out of the refrigerator. With a quick glance to make sure Brian and David’s backpacks and instruments were waiting by the back door, I called the boys. Belle danced eagerly at my heels, but I told her no. I had a number of errands to run, and I didn’t want to have to leave her in the car. She slunk to her pouf in the corner of the kitchen, settling in with a heavy sigh—the golden-retriever guilt trip.
I headed to the car to wait for the boys.
My plan was to drop them at their respective schools and then stop at Starbucks to top up my caffeine level and make some phone calls.
School drop-off went without a hitch, and I was quickly on my way. I phoned Tess to see if she wanted to join me for coffee, but my call went to voice mail.
I drove through the parking lot at the local shopping center, watching for cars that might come flying off the expressway and peel into a parking space in front of Starbucks as if there were no one else on the planet. Drivers in Orchard View, I’d learned, are very serious about their coffee.
Once inside the coffee shop, I ordered, grabbed my drink, and found a seat on the outside patio. I rummaged in my backpack for my notepad and my phone. Three sips of my drink and I was ready to dial. Flora first.
“Meadows for Health.”
“Flora? It’s Maggie McDonald. I met you at Elaine Cumberfield’s house.”
“Of course. Have you learned anything more about Susan Harrier’s death?”
“Not yet. That’s why I’m calling. Have you been able to get the treasurer reports from Dennis DeSoto? You’d mentioned at the meeting that he was stalling on those?”
“Not really stalling. He’s busy.”
I didn’t know Flora well enough to know if she earnestly believed that Dennis was busy or whether she was being sarcastic. Either way, I pressed on.
“Would it help if I dropped by his house to pick them up? He lives up the road from me.”
“That would be great. You could drop them at school when you get them. I’m sure there’s no rush, though. With Miss Harrier gone, I don’t know when our next PTA meeting will be.”
Flora changed the subject and her voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t want to say this in front of everyone at Elaine’s, but I’m afraid Tess might have had a motive for getting rid of Miss Harrier.”
Tess? Tess had said she could have killed the woman. At the time, I’d assumed she was exaggerating for effect, since I’d said much the same thing myself. Could I have been wrong? Could Tess have been serious?
“Miss Harrier found out that Tess and her husband were separated, and that Teddy, their son, was spending a lot of time at his dad’s apartment in Mountain View, outside our school district,” Flora said.
“Surely that’s none of Harrier’s business. It’s a good thing, isn’t it? A boy spending time with his dad?” I was filling space. I hadn’t given much thought to Tess’s husband or lack thereof, but learning they were separated reminded me how little I knew about anyone. I seemed to be having that thought over and over. I should have it tattooed on my arm: Things aren’t always what they seem and you can’t trust anyone. I shuddered. What a dreadful way to live.
“Maybe,” agreed Flora. “But the problem is the school district’s residency requirements. Miss Harrier was hoping to cut costs by kicking out any child who didn’t live in the district most of the time. She’d talked to Tess about whether Teddy was spending more time with his dad, and whether he should be going to school in Mountain View instead of Orchard View. Tess was furious and defensive, as if Miss Harrier had questioned her fitness as a mother, her supervision of her son, and her choice of career.”
“If Harrier was on a campaign to reduce costs, she must have been asking other parents similar questions?”
“Yes, but as far as I know, none of them were as angry as Tess. She has a frightful temper.”
I told Flora I would pass the information along to Stephen, but I needed to change the subject. I didn’t think Tess was the killer. I was fishing for information, but the problem was I didn’t know what I was trying to catch or what to use for bait. I tried a different topic.
“Flora, you know that iPad that Harrier took everywhere with her, slapping it to get people’s attention, taking notes, and checking databases?”
“Yes?”
“Do you have any idea where it is?”
“Surely the police have it. Maggie, I’m not Miss Harrier’s secretary, I’m the secretary for the PTA and a reluctant one at that. Tess twisted my arm and told me it was my duty to volunteer and I’m regretting saying yes. I’m a single mom looking after the health of my family and my business. I don’t have time to track things down for you or for the police. I’m sorry Susan Harrier’s dead, but I really don’t know what that has to do with me. If you’re able to get the PTA treasurer reports from Dennis, drop them off in the office with April. It was lovely meeting you on Monday.” Flora’s voice grew more shrill and her agitation increased with every sentence she uttered.
I started to ask another question before realizing she’d hung up on me. I shrugged. Flora was trying to run a business and could have any one of a number of reasons for hanging up so abruptly.
I hadn’t teased much information from her, but I had what I needed most: an excuse to press Dennis for the reports. I wasn’t sure why I was focused on them, especially now that the police were on the lookout for the iPad. I just had a nagging feeling, an inkling that there was something hidden in the numbers that would give us a hint about what had happened and why. Flora had said Harrier was pressing Dennis for the reports. If she’d wanted them, and Dennis was withholding them, they must mean something. Besides, I neither liked nor trusted Denni
s. Not at all.
Next up, I phoned Adelia to ask about window repairs.
Adelia said she was sure her window guys still had the measurements for the windows they’d previously replaced. They’d bring extra glass and cut the panes for the other windows on-site. She’d let them in and didn’t need me to be there.
Walking back to my car, I was surprised to see Flora standing in the doorway of one of the other stores in the rustic strip mail, beckoning me in. I’d completely missed her store when I’d walked past it the first time. A carved wood sign over the door spelled out Meadows for Health in gold-embossed letters flanked by beautifully rendered California wildflowers. A similar motif was painted on the store’s front window, which was filled with artful but natural arrangements of flowers and plants.
“Come in,” said Flora. “Come in, quickly.”
Flora was an odd, jittery woman, and apparently prone to mood swings, but her shop was warm, inviting, and very well organized. It smelled fresh and clean, without the overpowering sweetness of a candle or soap store. The shop welcomed visitors to linger, with tea and cookies set out on a low table in the center of a cozy seating area that included a floral-cushioned love seat and two armchairs. Soft flute music mingled with the sounds of rain-forest birds on a hidden sound system.
“Your shop is lovely,” I said, scanning the shelves to see if I could spot the medical-marijuana products I’d heard about. I scanned the room, trying to determine at a glance whether there were any professional services I could offer to help Flora run her business more efficiently. Given the personalized nature of her business, I thought it would be nice to do away with the grocery store type shelving and install narrow glass shelves that stocked her products one-deep, emphasizing the freshness and uniqueness of each organic product. I saw gift baskets of bath oils, candles, and wooden massage rollers that looked like children’s toys. Prisms, crystals, and New Age self-help books. Earrings, yoga mats, and chimes, but none of the smoking paraphernalia I’d expected. And, other than the expensive glass shelving I could easily imagine, there were no obvious business opportunities for Simplicity Itself other than the fact that Flora and I might have some crossover clientele interested in a variety of self-help services.
I wasn’t sure what a marijuana dispensary looked like nor did I know for sure whether Flora ran that portion of her business from here or from home or another location. In short, I didn’t really know much at all. I reminded myself that Flora’s pot business, licensed and legal or otherwise, was an unconfirmed rumor, not a fact.
“I’m sorry I hung up on you earlier,” said Flora, whispering. “Elisabeth DeSoto came in for a massage, and I didn’t feel comfortable talking about Dennis and the treasurer’s reports while she was here. I can’t afford to insult any of my customers.”
“But I just spoke with you a few minutes ago,” I said, thinking that was the world’s fastest massage.
“She’s in the back with Jenelle, my massage therapist. You should come in for a session. It would take care of that stress you’re building up in your shoulders and neck. The first one is half price. I have Jenelle’s cards here somewhere.”
Flora stepped behind the counter and rummaged in a box next to the cash register.
“I know a great product for keeping track of loose business cards,” I said. “Did I tell you that I’ll be launching my own business in the next few months? It’s Simplicity Itself and my goal is to find ways for all my clients to operate their homes and businesses more efficiently. Please let me know if there’s anything you’d like my help with. I have my own card right here.”
I’d stuffed a few of my cards into my bag last night on a whim, since business cards seemed to be part of even the most informal meetings in Orchard View.
Flora apparently hadn’t heard me because she ignored my outstretched hand.
“Aha,” she said. “Here you go. Jenelle keeps her own schedule, so you can call her directly.”
I took the card and added it to the stack I’d collected and secured it with a rubber band.
“Flora, was there a reason you pulled me in here?” I said, once again offering her my card.
“Oh, right,” she said, patting the pockets on her work apron and pulling out a fist-sized set of keys. Flora selected a key from the ring, one with a green plastic bumper around the head of the key.
“Come through to the back,” she said. “I wanted to give you the PTA binders so that you’ll know which of the treasury reports I’m missing. When you get them from Dennis, you can pop the new ones in and give the whole thing to April.”
“Can’t I just give the reports to April?”
“You could, I guess, but it seems better to keep the whole binder together,” Flora said, bustling through a curtained doorway to the back of the store. I followed behind her like a baby duck following its mother. We passed a restroom and two doors marked Whisper, Please. Therapy in Session. A utilitarian stockroom and office followed, with a short row of purse-sized lockers secured with combination locks. Next to the lockers was a towel rack around which an additional collection of locks was fastened.
Flora saw me looking at them. “That’s Jennifer’s project,” she said. “My daughter. She’s a huge fan of Elementary, and wants to be able to pick a lock faster than Joan Watson.”
The hallway ended in a door that opened onto a delivery alley with spots for owners to park behind their shops.
I wasn’t going to argue with Flora. I was the newcomer. She was the old hand. I knew enough about PTA politics to avoid rocking the boat. If she wanted me to put the reports in the binder before I gave them to April, that’s what I’d do. It wasn’t a battle worth fighting. And Flora seemed emotionally brittle, somehow. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt she needed protecting, like a baby bird.
She unlocked the passenger door of a vintage, hunter-green VW bug in mint condition, with blue, purple, and rainbow-colored bumper stickers saying Co-exist; Tolerance; Respect; and Namaste. The little car was adorable—a throwback that spoke of frugality and painstaking maintenance.
Flipping the seat forward, Flora rummaged among school sweatshirts and dance clothes in the backseat, searching, I guessed, for the binder.
I peered over her shoulder to see if I could help. “If you can’t find it, Flora, it’s not a problem,” I said.
“It was here this morning,” Flora said. “It must be here now.”
She pushed past me, muttering a quick “Excuse me,” and attacked the clutter in the backseat from the driver’s-side door. I was reminded again of a fluttering baby bird and moved to help her look.
The clutter was girl clutter, with lots of purple and pink: a pair of tap shoes, a teddy bear wearing a pink tutu, and some sparkly hair ties. At the bottom of the pile, something black and clunky fell from the seat to the floor.
I reached down, wrapped my hand around the handle, then pulled it up and stared.
“You have a gun?” I said.
Chapter 20
Gossip often reveals more about the gossiper than the gossipee. Organizing professionals can use that knowledge to their advantage in getting to know their clients.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Tuesday, September 9, Late morning
I stared at the gun, which became weightier as I held it.
“Is that safe, just sitting out here like this?” I didn’t know anything about guns, but I was sure there were laws that said you couldn’t carry one around in the backseat of your car.
“That’s Jennifer’s,” said Flora.
“Jennifer’s? Your eighth-grade daughter?”
I turned the gun over. It was definitely a pistol—heavy and black. But someone had drawn polka dots on the side with fuchsia nail polish.
“Jennifer’s?”
“Got it!” said Flora, grabbing a massive black binder and standing. She banged her head on the roof of the VW.
Breathing hard, she heft
ed the book out of the car, lifted it up and let it drop on the roof. She pushed the binder across the roof to me, but I was still holding the polka-dotted gun.
“Oh, just shove that back under the sweatshirts,” said Flora.
“Seriously?” I couldn’t for the life of me reconcile the fact that the woman I’d pegged as a liberal earth mother tolerated handgun ownership among children.
“Oh, for Goddess sake,” she said. “Hand it over.”
I did, happy to be rid of it.
“See this?” she said, sticking her index finger into the barrel like a cartoon character about to get her arm blown off. “This orange tip means it’s an airsoft gun. A toy. I’m not a big fan of toy guns, but Jennifer bought it herself with money she earned doing chores for the other shop owners after school. The hobby shop next to her dance studio has a target range. She practices there sometimes while she waits for her dad or me to give her a ride home.”
“May I see?” I said, changing my mind about handling the gun. Flora handed it over. I’d never seen an airsoft gun before. Most of what I heard wasn’t good. Besides the fact that Stephen had said one was used in the shoot-out at our house last night, news reports in Stockton about airsoft guns usually focused on the fact that they looked just like real guns. Tragedy ensued when police mistook airsoft guns for real guns or vice versa.
The orange end was pretty small, and I approved of Jennifer’s efforts to differentiate the pistol from a real handgun by painting it with fuchsia dots. Maybe she should have gone a step further and painted the whole thing purple.
