by K. J. Emrick
The last time the slimy toad had made an offer for her business, it had been during that nearly-disastrous time when one of her customers had dropped dead in her bakery. At the time, Cookie had harbored suspicions that Benjamin himself was responsible, thinking perhaps he had committed murder in order to get at her shop and the land he wanted to build his strip mall on. She’d been wrong but, God help her, she would accuse him of this murder too if it weren’t for the fact that the skeletal remains of the victim had been sealed up in a secret chamber under her shop for a century or better.
“Cookie, please,” Benjamin schmoozed, falling into line next to them with everyone else looking to grab a plate and load up with cupcakes and bread and chocolate delights to munch on from the tables laid out like a buffet. His attention was less on the food, and more on his sales pitch. “You and I can both guess what will happen next. Your sales will suffer as the investigation drags on. Oh, and when people learn who the poor dead man was…”
He clucked his tongue a few times, getting his meaning across without words.
“How do you know who the victim was?” Jerry demanded, keeping his voice low so no one but the three of them could hear. He stalled the line to round on Benjamin. “That information was supposed to be withheld pending confirmation.”
Benjamin looked at Jerry with a carefully sculpted smile, and shrugged. “As I said. I was talking to your Chief. Really, Jerry. You should learn to play along with us.”
After a moment, Jerry took Cookie’s hand and pulled her out of line. “Great to see you, Ben,” he called back over his shoulder. “We’ve got someone we need to see. Try the cupcakes though. Cookie made them especially for you.”
The way Benjamin’s face wrinkled up, it was very obvious he wasn’t going to go anywhere near Cookie’s cupcakes now.
She chuckled as they slowed down and angled through the spaces between the picnic tables that had been set up for people to eat at if they didn’t want to sit on the grass. “You’re a bad man, Jerry Stansted.”
“Benjamin just gets under my skin,” he groused. “I know the man can’t help being the way he is.”
“Oh? And what way is that?”
“With his head permanently stuck up his—”
“Grandma Cookie!” Clarissa called to her and Jerry, breaking off from a group of other kids her own age. Teenagers who had all gotten together to ignore each other and stare at their phones instead. Cookie looked for Hamish. He wasn’t here.
“Hey there, granddaughter of mine,” Cookie said with a warning glance at Jerry for him to control his language. “Are you having fun?”
“Actually, no not yet.” She frowned and tilted her head back at her group clustered at the edge of the tables. “The touch football game will be this afternoon and that’ll be interesting, I guess.”
“Maybe,” Cookie suggested, “it would be more fun with that young man of yours here?”
“No doubt.” Clarissa sighed and checked her watch. “He was supposed to be here by now. I don’t know where he went.”
Next to them, Jerry looked across the park to where the mayor was sitting down with George Merriam and his wife. There were picnickers everywhere in between, people who had brought blankets to spread out on the grass and eat the snacks they’d packed or the ones from the buffet line. Her bakery would be closed until one o’clock this afternoon because everyone was here. No one would be looking to buy more cupcakes until later.
Jerry checked his watch. They had plenty of time before they had to head back but he was acting like he was on the clock working a case, instead of acting like a man spending the day out with his fiancé. She pursed her lips as her fingers felt over for the engagement ring on her left hand, feeling the diamond and the smooth metal of the band.
Then again, she reminded herself, she wanted this one to be solved probably more than anyone else. So, if he was in full cop mode right now that was actually a good thing.
“Grandma I’m sure he’s coming,” Clarissa said to her, misinterpreting the reason for Cookie’s pensive expression. “It’s not like he’s avoiding you because of the dead body… I mean, no one’s avoiding you…”
“It’s all right, dear,” Cookie told her, turning her frown into a smile. “I know what you mean. Your Hamish is somewhere around here. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
“Cookie,” Jerry said, just about bouncing from foot to foot in his impatience. “I should go over and talk to Mister Merriam before he leaves.”
Clarissa’s eyes grew wider. She’d been there for Jerry’s big reveal last night, about Jozebus Merriam, and while the town’s history might not mean as much to her as it did to Cookie or Jerry, she was aware of how serious it was to have such an important person die in her grandmother’s shop.
Jerry caught the eagerness in her eyes. “Clarissa, you didn’t tell anyone what I said, did you?”
“Of course not,” she said, throwing him a look as she rolled her eyes. “I’m not stupid. Hamish didn’t either, before you ask. So, we’re going over to talk to George Merriam now?”
“Oh no,” Cookie told her. “There is no ‘us’ in this case, young lady. This is a very serious business. Jerry and I are going to talk to George.”
“I’m not a little girl,” she pointed out. “I know when to keep my mouth shut. Did you guys forget the thing on the boat?”
She looked from Cookie to Jerry, waiting for them to dare say anything. Cookie had to admit, she had a point. At the end of the mystery on the cruise boat, when the killer had thought Clarissa would make a great human shield, she’d beaten the living daylights out of him and made him regret ever hurting her stepfather. Cookie knew that moment still haunted her, as much as the death of her stepdad just when they were starting to get close, but she had handled herself very well. Then, and now.
“You know,” Jerry finally said to Cookie, “it might actually look more natural if she came with us. Less of an impromptu interrogation, and more of a friendly hi-how-are-you to one of the most prominent citizens of Widow’s Rest.”
Cookie tried to argue with him, because she really didn’t want her granddaughter involved in this if they could help it. She’d been drawn into the mystery on the cruise ship and it had nearly gotten her hurt, or worse. Still, he was right that having Clarissa come with them would be good cover for their real purpose. Jerry’s Chief had told him not to say anything. This way, it would look like he intended to keep that promise. Having Clarissa with them would set George Merriam and anyone else at the table over there at ease. Besides, they were out here in the park under a warm sun and surrounded by a couple of hundred people. What could possibly go—
Ahem. She stopped herself before she could finish that sentence. No sense tempting fate.
“Fine,” she said, raising her hands helplessly. “Come on, Clarissa. Let’s go meet the oldest man in Widow’s Rest.”
The table reserved for the mayor and the five town selectmen was the last one over. It was a little bigger than the others, covered in a purple tablecloth and set with white plastic plates instead of the paper ones everyone else was using. The scene reminded Cookie for all the world of that painting of the Last Supper by Da Vinci. At one end, George Merriam and his wife were laughing at some joke someone at the table had made. Or, Cookie thought, maybe they were just enjoying the fact that they were together with each other on such a glorious day.
“Why, Jerry Stansted! Karen Williams!” Mayor Fieldberg greeted them, standing up from her seat on the opposite side of the table. “She:kon! Welcome.”
Cookie recognized the Mohawk word, and its translation. Quinn was in a long, cream-colored dress with blue and yellow flowers along the sleeves which were a perfect complement to the deep brown of her skin. Quinn Fieldberg was very proud of her Native American heritage, and even today during this ceremony she wore a cord tied through her long straight hair, hung with feathers. She was an intelligent and very pretty woman, and Cookie was constantly surprised there was no Mister Mayo
r Fieldberg.
“Now, Quinn, I’ve told you to call me Cookie,” she said, reaching across to shake hands. “I’m only Karen to people who don’t know me.”
“Of course,” Quinn replied with a tip of her head. Her almond eyes took in Jerry and Clarissa as well. “You know everyone here, of course. Felix, and Hank, and all our selectmen. And of course, George and his lovely wife Batina.”
Everyone nodded or waved or gave a quick hello before going back to their conversations and food. George and Batina were sitting beside each other, there at the end, and neither of them looked away when the others did. It was like they knew Cookie and Jerry were there to see them.
“Oh,” Cookie said when she realized she was staring. “Quinn, I don’t think you’ve met my granddaughter. This is Clarissa. Clarissa, this is Quinn Fieldberg, our mayor, and of course these are the guests of honor, George and Batina Merriam.”
Quinn smiled warmly at Clarissa. “I’ve never had the pleasure. I’ve been so busy, what with just being elected mayor, that there hasn’t been much time to get out and live. I’m hoping to change that soon.”
“Oh, yes,” Batina Merriam said to them, smiling with faded blue eyes that nearly matched the color of her sleeveless top. “You have to live your life before it flashes right by you. Believe me, we know.”
“I do agree,” Quinn said with a gesture of her hands. “But one does need the resources to live life. Money, friends, and time are always in short supply.”
“I can promise you,” Batina told her, “that doesn’t change as you get older.”
“Now, Dear,” George said to his wife as he patted her thin, pale arm. “These are the best years of my life, as far as I’m concerned. I get to spend them with you, after all.”
“Flatterer,” she said, but Cookie could see how much she loved hearing her husband say just those exact words. She reached over and adjusted the loose collar around his neck, fussing over her man.
“You’ve lived in Widow’s Rest your whole life, haven’t you?” Jerry asked George, holding out a hand to shake his.
Subtle, Cookie thought to herself.
“Why, yes we have,” George answered, folding his hands together on the table, apparently eager to talk about this for what must have been the tenth time alone today. “My wife and I both have been lifetime residents of Widow’s Rest. ‘Course, it wasn’t always called that, as I’m sure you know.”
“Naturally,” Cookie said, while Jerry nodded.
“Wait, what now?” Clarissa said half a beat later. “What do you mean it wasn’t always Widow’s Rest?”
George chuckled, shaking a finger around the table at everyone. “Now, see? What’d I tell you. We need to do a better job of teaching our history. The young people… what do they know about history?”
He turned back to Clarissa, smiling to take the sting out of his words. “Not your fault, young lady. If it doesn’t flash across one of those cellphone screens then it just doesn’t exist, am I right?”
Clarissa smiled in turn, but Cookie could tell she was holding back a sarcastic reply about cellphones and the older generation. She clenched her jaw tight and nodded instead. Cookie reminded herself to let Clarissa know later on how helpful she was being by not putting the very old and very condescending George Merriam in his place.
“Well now,” he continued, easing into his subject. “Did you wonder why this is only our centennial celebration when all of New England has been here more than two hundred years already? I mean, a centennial’s just one hundred years, right? So why is Widow’s Rest such a young town?”
Beside him, Batina caught Cookie’s gaze with a look that was half apology and half exasperated commentary on men in general. Cookie understood. This was probably the only thing that George had left to look forward to, telling his stories and passing on his years of wisdom. Again, she looked at this couple, and tried to picture her own future. Her and Jerry, in their golden years, old and weathered and still holding hands.
“So why is the town only a hundred years old?” Clarissa said, playing along.
Bless her heart, Cookie thought.
“Ah.” Now George was really warming to his subject. “That’s because of my family, I’m proud to say. A little more than a hundred years ago, my grandparents ran the butcher shop over on Anthem Way. Jozebus and Hester Merriam. Right where your bakery is now, Cookie. Same building, in fact. They lived a happy life. Nothing fancy, but they liked what they did and they were respected by everyone they knew.”
He tapped his fingers against the table, pursing his lips as the tone of his story changed. “It was when Grandpap died out at sea that Grandma Hester donated her fortune to rebuild the town. There had just been that huge fire on Main Street, of course. You must’ve heard about that, right Clarissa? No? Well my, my. What are they teaching in school these days? Half of Main Street burned to the ground in that fire. Dozens of folks dead, including my uncle. That’d be Grandma and Grandpap’s firstborn son. He was in his teens at the time. Terrible thing. They think that’s what made Grandpap go off to sea when he did that next year, and he never came back…”
He trailed off, a calculating look in his eye as he stared up at Jerry.
“Um… well. Then,” he continued, reaching out to hold Batina’s hand again, “Grandma donated the money for the town to rebuild, but her health was never the same after her son died in the fire, and her husband died at sea… she, uh… she died a few years later, and she was laid to rest in the cemetery.”
He stopped again, and this time he seemed to have trouble catching his breath. All around the table, conversations died away into silence.
His voice shaking, George finished his story. “In her honor, the town renamed itself. Widow’s Rest. My widowed Grandma, resting in the cemetery, savior of the town… and Grandpap dead at sea somewhere… his body never found…”
A sob choked off the rest of what he wanted to say.
Clarissa stepped closer to Cookie. Batina’s eyes were wide, her mouth hanging open in a little “o” framed by a lifetime of laughlines. It was obvious that she’d come to the same conclusion as her husband. Even though Jerry had tried to be subtle and not let on who the man in the cellar had been, the Merriams had figured out what he wasn’t saying.
After another moment, Quinn leaned over. “George? Are you okay?”
He nodded, but he was deathly pale and his hands shook around Batina’s. “It was him,” he asked, “wasn’t it? The man you found in your store, Cookie. That was my Grandpap, wasn’t it?”
Jerry looked cornered. He spread his hands helplessly. “George, we don’t know for sure.”
“But you do,” George insisted, “don’t you?”
With a resigned sigh, Jerry nodded.
“My Grandpap didn’t die at sea, did he?”
Slowly, Jerry nodded again.
“He’s still here. In Widow’s Rest.”
Batina gasped and put her arms around her husband’s sloping shoulders. “Oh, George. Oh, my poor, poor George.”
Quinn cleared her throat. “I think maybe,” she said, “we should all go over to my office. Jerry, I’m going to call the police chief in as well. Why don’t we leave Cookie and Clarissa here. You’ll catch up to them later.”
Cookie didn’t like the sound of that. Jerry had never intended to let this particular cat out of the bag. He had carefully instructed them not to say anything until they knew for sure. Cookie knew he hadn’t wanted to say anything, but what could they do? George deserved to know what—and who—they had found. Maybe the whole town did. Like George had said, his grandmother was that important to their history. To think of the poor woman, waiting for her husband to come home from sea while he was actually dead in the cellar all along…
Cookie’s mind leapt to a conclusion that she didn’t particularly like.
If George’s grandmother had been living in the butcher shop during the timeframe that the secret door had not been a secret, and if she had been there wh
en it was walled over, and if she had been there at the same time that her husband Jozebus had been chained to a chair down in that cellar and left to die…
Didn’t that make George’s grandmother, hero of the whole town, the main suspect in the murder of Jozebus Merriam?
Clarissa was looking at her, and in her granddaughter’s eyes she could see the reflection of her own thoughts. Well. That put a whole new spin on the centennial celebration, now didn’t it?
Quinn and Batina had helped George up out of his seat and they were already heading across the park to the sidewalk. A few of the selectmen followed. Jerry held Cookie’s hands and kissed her cheek, his expression a complete mask. “Are you going to be all right?” he asked her.
“Are you?” she countered.
He chuckled. “I guess we’ll see. I’ll find you at the bakery whenever I’m done, all right?”
Then he was off, and Cookie suddenly felt very exposed standing there in the middle of everyone without Jerry to protect her. All those eyes, all looking her way. At least that’s how it felt.
One of the selectmen got up off the bench after the others had left, carrying his plate. He propped one foot up on his vacant seat, and folded his arms over the knee of his jeans as he shrugged. “Don’t worry about it, Cookie. That bombshell would’ve gotten out sooner or later anyway. I heard the same exact rumor earlier this morning about the, uh, remains. Can you imagine? Jozebus Merriam, murdered. All this time everyone thought he was lost out at sea like that song about the Edmund Fitzgerald and now this? Can’t hardly believe it.”
Cookie searched her memory and finally came up with the selectman’s name. Archibald Winters. He was the one who had approved her rezoning last year to add a shed on the back of her bakery for storage. Too bad she hadn’t dug down another twenty feet when she put it in. Maybe she’d have found the cellar then instead of now.
“Thanks, Archie,” she told him. “I appreciate that.”
He balanced his plate on the knee as he reached over to the table for his cup. His button-up shirt seemed too hot for a warm day like this, but then again so did the thick dark hair he wore down past both shoulders. “No problem. Listen, the town’s going to catch wind of this. You should maybe go back to your shop and make sure that part of your kitchen is blocked off with… I don’t know. Boxes. Or blankets maybe, or cans of peaches or something. We don’t want tourists taking photos of the mysterious door that leads to the grave of Jozebus Merriam.”
