by Logan, Kylie
Mike stalked away and I knew better than to follow.
Oh, it’s not like I was worried he might actually make good on his promise and sue me and win. Jason Arbuckle, my attorney back in New York, could handle anything. But I knew better than to get embroiled in all things legal. Lawsuits equal nitpicking, and nitpicking draws attention. My whole point in coming to the island in the first place was to get away from that sort of thing and find peace.
Does that mean I’d back off if my investigation led me in Mike’s direction?
Obviously not.
But it did mean I vowed to keep a low profile.
That actually might have been possible if halfway back to town I didn’t see Margaret coming from the other direction. One look at me in the SUV and she stopped, waved an arm to get my attention, and called out, “Yoohoo! Little Miss Detective!”
She couldn’t hear my groan, and even if she had, I bet she would have ignored it.
“I hoped I’d see you!” Margaret, resplendent that day in pink pants and a pink and white top, crossed the street to intercept me and I stopped the SUV and rolled down the window. “I heard you were over at the regatta.”
“I didn’t stay long.” That was probably obvious since the race had started only a little while earlier. “I need to get home and—”
“And keep digging into the mystery of Richie’s death. Yes, of course!” Margaret nodded and looked past me. From this distance there was no way she could see all the way to the yacht club and Mike’s ice cream cart, but she nodded knowingly. No doubt, her sister had filled her in on all the details. “What did Mike tell you?”
I tried for a graceful smile. “All I did was buy ice cream from Mike.”
“Uh huh. And I just fell off a turnip truck. No matter!” She put a friendly hand on my arm where I had it propped at the open window. “Because I think I might be able to help you. You know . . .” She winked. “About the i-n-v-e-s-t-i-g-a-t-i-o-n.”
There was no use denying it. Not to a woman who felt the need to spell out the word when we were the only ones around. “All I did was talk to Mike,” I said.
“Yes. Alice told me she thought that’s why you were hanging around. But here’s something I bet Alice didn’t tell you . . .”
Honestly, I thought I was about to find myself in some sort of one-upsmanship knitting competition and get a critique of Alice’s skills. That’s why I was so surprised when Margaret said, “Richie and his girlfriend . . . they had a big fight yesterday morning.”
“I didn’t know. That he had a girlfriend or that they had a fight.”
“Oh yes.” Margaret was very pleased with herself. Her lips pinched. “We saw the whole thing. They were out in front of the hotel and I’ll tell you what, she was not a happy camper. I couldn’t hear exactly what they said, but I know a woman who’s madder than a wet hen when I see one. I thought her head was going to explode, and there she was pointing at poor Richie and her jaw flapping a mile a minute. Alice and I, we tried to get closer, but . . . well . . .” Her blue eyes twinkled. “Even meddlers like us don’t like to look too obvious.”
“Alice knew about the fight? She didn’t say anything when I stopped at the knitting shop this morning. Or when I saw her a little while ago.”
“Oh, you have to forgive my sister. She’s a little touchy when it comes to love.”
This was another surprise, and I guess my expression showed it because Margaret stepped nearer to the SUV. “You see, Alice has never had much of a love life, so when there’s talk of boyfriends and girlfriends, it always rankles her just a little. As for me . . .” Her smile was just a tad self-satisfied. “I don’t have a problem talking about love. You see, fifteen years ago, I met a man who came to visit relatives here on the island. We fell in love. And got married.”
“I didn’t know that you were—”
“Oh, not anymore.” She didn’t wait for me to ask for the details. “After we got married, I actually left South Bass for a while. Tony had a place in Florida, near Sarasota, and we lived there. I came back here a couple years ago, after he died. Started using my maiden name again. Because that’s how everyone knows me.”
I would have offered my condolences if she’d given me a chance.
“Anytime the subject of romance comes up, Alice gets all prune-faced,” Margaret said. “That’s why I knew I had to be the one to tell you about Richie’s girlfriend. She could be a suspect, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know, but I would like to talk to her. What did you say her name was?”
“Name?” As if she’d never considered it before, Margaret twitched. “Well, I don’t know her name. But that’s no problem. She works over at the hotel. You know, the girl with the crossed eyes.”
10
“None of it makes any sense.”
Kate didn’t have to elaborate. We were on my front porch enjoying a Friday early evening glass of wine, and Chandra and I knew exactly what she was talking about.
Richie’s murder.
Of course she was talking about Richie’s murder.
In spite of the fact that the weekend Bastille Day celebration was now officially in full swing, the island was packed with tourists, and the excitement was cranking up for the next day’s big party in the park, Richie’s murder was all anyone could talk about.
“Mike did it,” Chandra announced, though how exactly she’d come to that conclusion was anybody’s guess.
“I think it was You-Know-Who.” With one French-manicured finger, Kate pointed up and toward the house. Big Dan Peebles and Didi had gone inside only a few minutes before to change for dinner. “He’s got good reason.”
“Yes, and so do Gordon and this mysterious girlfriend of Richie’s,” I pointed out. “And Dino,” I added in a whisper just in case he was anywhere within earshot.
“And that’s why none of it makes sense.” Our wine wasn’t gone, but Kate was particularly proud of the newest Wilder Winery wine—an earthy pinot noir with just a hint of cherry—and she topped off our glasses. “It’s like everyone you’ve talked to has a reason to want Richie dead.”
“Well . . .” I sipped, nodded my approval in Kate’s direction, and sipped again. “That’s pretty much what Mike told me.”
“Yeah, just like he told you he left the bar early on Wednesday night because one of his kids was sick.” Chandra tossed her head and her blunt-cut, blond hair shimmered in the sunlight that streaked across my front porch. “We all know what he was really doing. Running from the scene of the crime.”
“But we don’t know that,” I reminded her. “We don’t know anything for sure. Not yet.”
When we heard footsteps on the stairway right inside the front door, we all sat back and drank our wine. With a house full of guests, I didn’t know who might be coming or going, but I did know that whoever it was, that person didn’t need to know we were speculating about the murder.
Whoever it was, he (or she) didn’t come outside, and after a couple minutes of silence, we settled back into our conversation.
“It’s unacceptable,” I finally said, voicing the troubling thought that had been bouncing around in my brain all that day. “One of our neighbors has been murdered. We can’t have that. We’ve got to do more to make sure whoever is responsible—”
“Mike,” Chandra said.
“Whoever,” I repeated. “We can’t let a thing like this hang in the air. It’s bad for the island.”
The front door popped open.
“You are obviously speaking about those who are pretending to be me.” Gregory Ashburn stepped onto the porch, resplendent as ever in his Dickens regalia. I knew the me he was talking about wasn’t the real me . . . er . . . him. He meant Dickens, of course, and he was obviously referring to Timothy Drake, who, as if on cue, followed him out to the porch.
“Good evening, ladies.” Drake bowed. “You are coming to the band concert in the park this evening, I hope. I have been told there will be an opportunity for those people pret
ending to be me . . .” His glance at Ashburn was icy and I knew why. He wasn’t talking about the real me . . . er . . . him, either. “There is word that the contest judges might be about and that we will have a chance to step to the center of the park so that they might get a first look at us. No doubt”—he smoothed a hand over his plaid vest—“they will see instantaneously that there is only one true Dickens among a flock of imposters.”
“Yes.” Ashburn stepped around Drake. “Only one true Dickens.”
“Certainly.” Drake stepped in front of Ashburn. “Only one.”
“And at least one more,” I mentioned, thinking of the man I’d met in the knitting shop. “Just so you boys know, you’ve got some competition.”
“A shame anyone else would even think to try.” Ashburn marched down the steps.
“A pity anyone at all would imagine there might be a chance to compete.” Drake waited until Ashburn was all the way out to the street. Then he left, too.
“Crazy,” I mumbled, and this time, I wasn’t talking about the murder.
“You got that right.” I didn’t know if Kate was talking about the murder, either, at least not until she added, “Poison. Did Hank ever say what kind?”
I shook my head. “I never heard.”
“They’re still doing tests,” Chandra assured us, and I didn’t doubt her information for one minute. When I got home from my interview with Mike at the regatta on Thursday, I noticed Hank’s SUV parked in front of Chandra’s house. Apparently, while he was visiting, they’d talked about the case—in addition to whatever else they might have been doing. “They’ll know soon,” she said, “and then maybe . . .” A single tear streaked down Chandra’s cheek. “Then maybe we can do something to help Richie’s spirit rest in peace.”
“Now, Chandra . . .” Kate is anything but warm and fuzzy, and she likes it that way. That didn’t stop her from putting a hand on Chandra’s shoulder. “You can’t keep getting all upset about it. It’s just a shame, that’s all. Poor Richie—”
“Poor Richie!” Chandra’s voice broke over the words. “All everybody ever saw was this weird, crazy guy who never amounted to much of anything, and all they ever called him was ‘Poor Richie.’ But he wasn’t like that. I mean, not a loser. Not always!” Her sigh was monumental. “Back in high school, Richie was a different sort of guy. But things changed. Richie changed. He was a completely different person when he came back from college.”
“Richie went to college?” It wasn’t like I didn’t trust Chandra’s memory, but let’s face it, ivy-covered walls did not exactly mesh with what I knew about Richie. “Are you sure?”
Chandra didn’t answer me. In fact, all she did was hop to her feet and motion us to follow her.
We did.
Down my front steps. Across my lawn. Over the stepping-stone path through Chandra’s herb garden and then through the maze of fountains and garden gnomes and whirling, twirling suncatchers that surrounded Chandra’s house.
All the way to her sunshiny yellow front door.
Even then Chandra didn’t stop. She threw open the door and went inside, and because we didn’t know what else to do, Kate and I went right along.
Once inside the tiny foyer, the first thing I noticed was the same first thing I always noticed at Chandra’s—the spicy scent of incense that hung in the air and settled on my shoulders like a cloak. She turned to her right and marched down a hallway, and when I fell into step behind her, the scent wafted around me in waves.
“In there!” Still out in the hallway, Chandra stepped back to let us into the spare bedroom that she used for her crystal and tarot readings. There was an Oriental rug on the floor, a low-slung futon along one wall, and a table under a window that was draped with brightly colored gauzy fabric. A bookcase against the purple wall was filled with titles like Tarot for Every Day and Are There Spirits Among Us? There was a wooden box on the shelf there, too, and Chandra grabbed it and riffled through the contents. She pulled out a photograph and held it out to me.
When it comes to old photographs, I’m no expert, but I sized up this one and decided it was from the eighties. It showed a dark-haired girl in a sapphire blue taffeta dress with a V neck and a deep ruffle around the neckline and shoulders. She stood under an archway decorated with phony flowers and next to her was a teenaged boy with shaggy hair and glasses. He was wearing a tux that was too big for him.
“That’s Richie,” Chandra said, pointing to the boy. “And that’s me. We went to our high school prom together.”
• • •
“You could have mentioned it before.”
We were out on Chandra’s patio, surrounded by potted flowers in every color of the rainbow and wind chimes that hung from nearby trees. When a breeze drifted by they sang a chorus, and over the plinking and the clanking and the chiming, I repeated what I’d already said to her when we were still in the house and looking at that picture of Chandra and Richie. “It’s pretty important information, don’t you think?”
“What difference does it make?” Like she had inside, Chandra shrugged like it was no big deal, and maybe she was right. Maybe it wasn’t. After all, the island was full of people who’d known Richie for years.
But not people who’d gone to the prom with him.
“Tell us about him,” I urged Chandra. “And about why you say he changed.”
She lit a candle in a yellow glass holder in the center of the red metal patio table and when she was done, Chandra blew out the match and plunked down in the green chair next to my blue one. “He was just a regular guy,” she said. “Just a sweet, regular kind of kid. Nobody ever thought Richie would grow up to be a rocket scientist, but he had plenty of ambition. He earned money every summer mowing peoples’ lawns and he had a great little business going. That’s how he saved money to go to college. He loved to fish, I remember that, too, and he loved music and video games. He was a good kid and when he left here to go to school at Bowling Green University, he was still a good kid. But when he came back . . .”
Chandra’s words drifted away, just like her focus.
I remembered what Alice had told us at the knitting shop the day before. “When Richie came back from school, that’s when his parents died, right?”
Chandra nodded. “I know that had something to do with him changing. I mean, how could it not? But it wasn’t just that. He was back here on the island before his parents died, before his first semester at college was even over. I remember that because I remember I ran into him at the grocery store and I asked if he was home for something special and . . .” It was plenty warm, but Chandra shivered. All those years ago, and the incident still struck her as odd. “He mumbled something about being home to stay and the way he looked at me . . . well, it was like he didn’t even know me.”
Chandra leaned forward and folded her hands on the table. “That’s when I noticed how much he changed. He was like a different person. He used to be fun and funny. You know, the class clown. But when he came back here, he pretty much turned into a hermit. He used to be my friend. Oh, not like that,” she added, when Kate pursed her lips and gave another look at that prom picture we’d brought outside with us.
“We were never really boyfriend and girlfriend,” Chandra said. “It was a small school. I mean a really small school. So we all just paired up to have dates for the prom. It’s not like I went with him because I was madly in love with him or anything. And he sure wasn’t madly in love with me, either. But I didn’t mind going to the prom with Richie. Like I said, he was a lot of fun and—”
Chandra’s mouth dropped open.
I scooted forward in my seat. “You thought of something? Or somebody? There was something about Richie—”
“Exactly.” The way Chandra’s eyes bulged, she looked a whole lot like the cement gargoyle that goggled at me from the stone wall behind her. “I just figured it out! Maybe Richie wasn’t Richie.”
Chandra might have known what she was getting at, but the blank looks on
my face and Kate’s sent a message. As if she could clear it and thus, find the words she needed, she shook her head. “Maybe it’s like in A Tale of Two Cities,” she said. “You know, like that Darnay guy and that Sydney What’s-His-Name. Maybe Richie went to school on the mainland,” Chandra said. “But maybe it wasn’t Richie who came back to the island. Maybe it was someone who looked like Richie.”
“Really?” Kate rolled her eyes.
I bit my lower lip. It was a farfetched theory, and frankly, I didn’t believe it for a minute. But it did bring up something we should have thought of as soon as we heard about Richie’s sad end.
“Where are you going?” Kate asked when I popped out of my chair.
“Into town. Who wants to come with me? We’re not going to be able to figure out what happened to Richie until we learn more about him, and I think we all know exactly who can help us.”
• • •
When we walked into the knitting shop, Margaret was on the phone. “Alice,” she mouthed and pointed to the phone, then held up one finger to tell us she’d be right with us.
By the time she was, I was ready with the story we’d concocted on the way over. The one about how Margaret and Alice were always so busy, and how since they were Richie’s landladies we figured they might need help cleaning out his house.
“It’s going to be a busy weekend,” I told her after I’d finished up that first part of the story, and even I was surprised I could sound so innocent when I had prevarication in my heart. “So we’re not going to have much of a chance to get any cleaning done until next week, but if we could go over this evening just to look around and see what we’re getting into, well, then we’ll know what we need. I mean as far as storage boxes and cleaning supplies.”
“That is the nicest thing anybody ever offered to do for me,” Margaret said, then added instantly, “for us, really, because my goodness, Alice will just be tickled pink when I tell her the news. You sure you girls want to take on a job like this?”
