“But he was here?” Kate’s pulse picked up with Sam’s evasiveness.
Sam swallowed and finished ringing up her purchase. “I remember him. Unpleasant fellow, but he did buy something.”
“Do you remember what it was?”
“Hmm . . . let me see.” Sam scratched his head and frowned at the cash register. Then his expression changed to one of grave concern. “You know, Kate, now that I think of it, I’m sure he was harmless. And he may have asked about Mavis, but I’m not sure. Probably a distant relative or something.”
The hairs on the back of Kate’s neck stood up once more. For the third time in one day, someone was avoiding her questions about Mavis Bixby.
“You don’t remember what he bought?”
Sam put her milk and cocoa in a bag and drew the handles together. “Here you go. You’re all set.”
“Sam, come on. You have to tell me.”
He wiped a hand across his forehead. “Kate, I remember the fellow.” He paused. “If you really want to know, he came in to buy a hunting knife.”
Sam’s grim expression and the word knife tightened Kate’s stomach.
“He bought a knife?”
Sam handed her the groceries and patted her hand. “Around here, lots of people buy knives for honest purposes, Kate. Cleaning game and fish. Shaving kindling. It’s probably nothing.”
“But it feels wrong, doesn’t it, Sam? What with Mavis leaving town so abruptly.”
Sam sighed. “I don’t think I would have thought anything of it, Kate, if you hadn’t asked me about it today. But, yes, something doesn’t feel right.” He paused and then shook a finger at her. “Though don’t you be seeing mysteries where there aren’t any, Kate Hanlon. Your husband would have my hide if anything I said got you mixed up in trouble.”
“Don’t worry, Sam. I’m just asking a few questions, not joining a SWAT team.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing, Kate. People would have said something if they thought Mrs.Bixby was in trouble.”
“I know, Sam.” She hooked the grocery bag over her arm. “Thanks for your help with the groceries. And thanks for the information.”
“Sure,” Sam said, but his glum expression showed that he wished he hadn’t been quite so helpful.
WHEN KATE LEFT the Mercantile, she stopped at her car to put the groceries in the front seat, then she headed for Smith Street Gifts on the west side of the town green. Like the Mercantile and Betty’s Beauty Parlor, the gift shop had a brick Victorian facade. It sat kitty-corner from the Mercantile, and somehow Steve Smith, who ran the gift shop, and Sam Gorman were careful not to step on each other’s toes. While the Mercantile carried groceries, hardware, and outdoor supplies, Steve’s shop leaned more toward souvenirs, gift items, and greeting cards.
Kate paused outside the shop’s large plate-glass window. Steve often featured the work of local artisans, and today was no exception. Spread across a dark blue cloth in the display area lay a treasure trove of handmade blue and white pottery. Kate recognized the work of Jessie Kilgore, a shy but pleasant young woman who lived on the outskirts of town.
Since their move to Copper Mill, Kate had thought about approaching Steve to ask if he might feature her stained-glass pieces in his shop sometime. Nerves knotted her stomach as she looked at Jessie’s work. The girl was a true artist, and Kate worried that her own work—much as she loved it—might not measure up.
Well, there was only one way to find out. Drawing a deep breath, she opened the door to the gift shop and stepped inside.
Smith Street Gifts had been established by the grandparents of the current owner. Steve Smith was a single man in his midthirties who’d grown up in Copper Mill. How he’d managed to escape the local matchmakers like Martha Sinclair, Kate had no idea. His mild demeanor must have concealed a determined wish to hold on to his bachelorhood.
“Good afternoon, Mrs.Hanlon.” Steve emerged from the back room, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Sorry. I was just finishing my lunch.”
“I didn’t mean to disturb you . . .” Kate couldn’t help but contrast the immediate, friendly service in a Copper Mill shop with her experiences at the large malls in San Antonio. Here she never had to worry about finding a salesclerk to check inventory or find a price on an item. “But if you have just a moment . . .”
“Sure. What can I do for you?”
Kate knew it was silly to be so nervous. She was a mature woman, a grandmother, for heaven’s sake, not some starry-eyed young thing. She drew another deep breath.
“I’ve been wanting to ask about the possibility of . . .” At the critical moment, her knees started to shake. “That is, I have a studio at home where I do stained-glass work, and I was wondering . . .”
Steve’s immediate smile, filled with both understanding and empathy, rescued her. “I’m always on the lookout for new talent,” he said. “Do you have a portfolio with you?”
“Portfolio?”
“Pictures of your work. I’d be happy to take a look.”
Kate felt foolish, an unaccustomed emotion. “I don’t have a portfolio. I didn’t realize . . .”
Steve walked toward her. “It’s no big deal. Just take some pictures of your pieces, and when you have prints made, put them in a photo album.”
“Oh, okay. Sure.” Kate was surprised and delighted to be treated as a serious artist, even if she was obviously an uninformed one. “I’ll do that.”
“Did you need anything else while you’re here?”
Kate glanced at her watch. “No, I just wanted to ask you about my work. I’d better get going.”
Steve walked with her to the door. “Just drop your portfolio by whenever it’s ready.”
“I will.”
They said good-bye, then Kate slipped out the door and headed toward her car.
Had it really been that simple? Of course, there were no guarantees, but Steve Smith had taken her interest in consigning her pieces seriously. A smile played at the corners of her lips. Life in Copper Mill might not offer all the bells and whistles of a large metropolitan area, but it certainly had its own rewards.
BEFORE HEADING HOME, Kate drove by the church to drop off some extra vases for the Ladies Auxiliary, who divided up the altar flowers each week and carried them to the shut-ins. Those vases were like rabbits, always multiplying, and Paul invariably returned home from his pastoral calls with several in his arms. Getting them back to the church, though, usually fell to Kate. She didn’t mind because it gave her a few extra moments to slip into the silent sanctuary and pray.
Kate settled into one of the front pews and took a deep breath, letting the peace of the place flow over her. Sunshine streamed in from the side windows, and it lit the new stained-glass window above the altar. She had made the window for the church when they’d rebuilt after the fire. Before moving to Copper Mill, she’d had little room in her schedule for her favorite pastime. But now, even with her church responsibilities, she could spend a satisfying amount of time in the extra bedroom, which she’d turned into her studio. Her son Andrew was working on building her a Web site, so she could start selling her pieces online. And now she even had the possibility of seeing some of her work in the display window of the gift shop.
But as delighted as she was about her conversation with Steve Smith, the mystery that had presented itself to her still weighed heavily on her mind.
Lord, am I right to be worried about Mavis Bixby? she prayed, thankful for the stillness of the room and some quiet time to focus on the question that had been troubling her since her trip to the beauty shop that morning. Everyone she’d talked to had told her not to fret about Mavis, but Kate’s instincts told her something was wrong. What should I do now, Lord?
A rustling from the foyer brought Kate out of her prayer. She suppressed a small sigh at the interruption.
“Kate? Is that you?” a familiar voice called from the back of the sanctuary, and Kate’s frustration evaporated.
“Livvy. What are you up to?�
�� Kate turned and smiled at Livvy Jenner, the town librarian and her closest friend in Copper Mill. Livvy had proved indispensable to Kate so far in solving the mysteries of Copper Mill.
“It’s my week to arrange the altar flowers,” Livvy said, walking down the aisle toward Kate and then settling into the polished oak pew next to her. Livvy’s auburn hair was swept up into a loose chignon, and her eyes gleamed. “Sorry if I’m barging in on your private time.”
Kate patted her shoulder. “No problem. A friendly face is always welcome.”
Livvy peered at her, the corners of her mouth curving downward. “Okay, what’s going on? I recognize that look.”
“What look?” Kate said, laughing. “I don’t have any look.”
Livvy’s hazel eyes sparkled. “Yes, you do, my dear. It’s the ‘I smell a mystery’ look, and I know it well.”
Kate sank against the pew back. “Okay, okay. I have run across something that’s bothering me.” She outlined her conversations over the course of the morning and her concern for the missing Mavis Bixby. “What do you think, Livvy?”
“I think you have good instincts. Besides, what harm can it do to try and track her down? If she’s fine, you’ll know for sure and can let the matter rest.”
“And if she isn’t? That’s the part that worries me.”
“Well, we can cross that bridge when we come to it,” Livvy said. “If you find out anything suspicious, you can turn it over to Sheriff Roberts. He’ll take it from there.”
“That’s true. Thanks, Livvy. I just needed a little perspective. Since I moved to Copper Mill, I seem to see a mystery behind every tree.”
“I guess the good Lord knew we needed a resident sleuth,” Livvy teased. “As long as you steer clear of anything too dangerous, I think you’ll be okay.” She reached over and hugged Kate. “Now, I’ve got flowers to arrange. Want to help?”
“Sure!” Kate rose along with Livvy and followed her out of the sanctuary. “It’ll be a welcome change, because I’m pretty sure the roses and daisies aren’t harboring any dark secrets.”
Kate and Livvy spent an enjoyable hour in the small kitchen in the basement of the church, arranging the flowers, but when Kate found herself at the sink, snipping stems, she couldn’t help but look out the high window at the white clapboard house across the way and say a little prayer for its former resident, Mavis Bixby, wherever she might be.
Chapter Three
As Kate had helped Livvy arrange and place the altar flowers for the next day, she came to the conclusion that it was time to talk to the county sheriff. Alan Roberts was a man of strong good sense, so perhaps he could settle the matter of Mavis Bixby once and for all. He probably knew as much about the comings and goings of people in Copper Mill as Renee Lambert and LuAnne Matthews. As it was, Kate didn’t think she could sleep until she pursued the mystery at least a little bit further.
The sheriff’s main office was in the courthouse in Pine Ridge five miles north of Copper Mill, but since it was Saturday, Kate knew she could probably find him in the satellite office in the Copper Mill Town Hall. The job of the sheriff, like Paul’s as a minister, was a 24-7 occupation, and it took him all over the county.
The sheriff was seated at his desk, just behind the empty desk of Skip Spencer, the deputy who patrolled Copper Mill.
“Good morning, Kate,” he said, his eyes smiling but wary.
He rose to his feet and motioned for her to have a seat in one of the ancient metal chairs opposite his desk. She decided to make the most of his good mood and slid into one of the chairs facing the desk.
The sheriff was a rotund man in his late forties. He had a short, flat haircut and large brown eyes that looked both intelligent and weary.
“Hello, Sheriff. How are you today? How’s your family?”
“Doing great. Kids growing like weeds.” He nodded. “So, what can I do for you today?”
“I just had a quick question.”
“Alrighty. Shoot.” He grinned. “Not literally, of course.”
Kate chuckled in response. “I was wondering if you knew anything about a woman named Mavis Bixby. She owns the property between the church and the parsonage. Her house just came up for sale, but no one seems to know where Mrs.Bixby has gone.”
Sheriff Roberts kept the smile pasted on his face for a fraction of a second too long. That was all it took for Kate to know that her misgivings about Mavis Bixby weren’t fanciful.
“I heard she moved last year. No mystery there.” The sheriff folded his arms across his chest, a defensive sign Kate recognized from raising a son through adolescence.
“Yes, but no one seems to know where she’s gone or how to get in touch with her. Don’t you think that’s unusual?”
Sheriff Roberts leaned back in his chair. “Well, Mavis always did keep to herself. She wasn’t one for much socializing. Anyway, she must be around somewhere if she’s put her house on the market. I noticed the For Sale sign when I was patrolling over that way this morning.”
“So you don’t know anything about Mavis that would cause you to worry?” Kate leaned forward in her chair.
Again the sheriff hesitated for that slightest fraction of a second. “Worry? No. She’s a grown woman, Kate. I doubt she’d take too kindly to anyone poking around in her private business.” He sat back up in the chair and rose to his feet. “Now, if you don’t mind excusing me, I’ve got a ballet recital to attend over at the high school, and my wife will definitely shoot me if I’m late.”
Kate rose as well and followed the sheriff through the office door. “Thank you for your time. I know you’re busy.”
“Never too busy for my favorite minister’s wife,” he said with a wink, but he couldn’t hide his relief as he shooed her out the door, followed her outside, and walked beside her down the steps.
“How’s the preacher coming with his chili for the cook-off?” he asked when they reached Kate’s black Honda Accord. “Has he started making his test batches yet?”
“I left him in the kitchen this morning. With any luck, it will still be there when I get back.”
“Well, tell him not to get too confident. I’ve got a secret weapon this year, and I mean to take the blue ribbon this time.”
Kate opened the car door and slid behind the wheel. She looked up at the sheriff. “This event sure brings out the competitive side of the men around here,” she teased. “Maybe law enforcement should stay neutral in case an altercation breaks out at the cook-off.”
The sheriff grinned. “The only trouble I foresee is some minor burns and a few bruised egos.”
Kate took a deep breath. “Sheriff, would you tell me if there was something wrong with Mavis Bixby?” she asked, hoping to catch him off guard.
Surprise and then consternation crossed Sheriff Roberts’s face. “Now, Kate. Just because someone left town doesn’t mean there was foul play. Could be lots of reasons Mrs.Bixby went quietly. Don’t worry yourself about it. I’m sure everything’s just fine.”
He shut Kate’s car door and waved good-bye. She had little choice but to insert the key into the ignition and start the car.
If Sheriff Roberts wasn’t worried about Mavis Bixby, there was no reason Kate should be. But somehow the sheriff’s assurances only made Kate more concerned about the fate of the missing woman.
THE POST OFFICE was bustling with people on a busy Saturday afternoon. Kate nodded her thanks at the man who held the door open for her, appreciative of the polite friendliness of her new hometown. The post office, unlike the late-Victorian buildings that lined the town square, had been a WPA project in the 1930s. Its plain brick facade and utilitarian interior—black tile floors and white plaster walls—bespoke an era when little money could be spared on decorative touches.
Kate joined the line of patrons shuffling their way toward the counter. For a change, she didn’t see anyone she knew, so she used the time as the line crawled slowly forward to consider how to word her request. Perhaps there were privacy laws th
at would prevent the clerk from answering questions about Mavis. Too bad she didn’t have one of her pies with her, although it might be a felony to bribe a postal employee, even if it was just with coconut meringue.
“I can help whoever’s next,” the clerk called.
Kate stepped forward. She didn’t recognize the middle-aged man in the light blue shirt and heavy beard.
“What can I do for you, ma’am?” He looked at her empty hands. “Do you need some stamps today?”
“No . . . um . . . actually, I just needed to ask a question.”
“Sure thing.” His brown eyes twinkled. “Animal, vegetable, or mineral?”
Well, at least he was friendly. That was a good sign.
“Actually, I’m trying to find out a forwarding address for someone I need to contact.” Belatedly she extended her hand across the counter toward the clerk. “My name’s Kate Hanlon. My husband, Paul, is the pastor of Faith Briar Church.”
The man’s smile remained constant, which was a good sign. Sometimes Kate’s use of the word pastor wasn’t so well received.
“Sure, I know who you are. Not much of a churchgoer myself, beg your pardon, but I hear good things about your husband.”
“Then perhaps you can help me? I need a forwarding address for a woman named Mavis Bixby. She used to live next door to the church.”
The man’s friendly demeanor wavered a bit at the mention of the missing woman’s name. “Well, don’t know if I can help you out with that.” He shuffled some papers in front of him. “If you want to write her a letter and she’s left a forwarding address, we’ll send it along to her. Although”—he frowned—“forwarding orders expire after six months, unless it’s been renewed.”
“So she did leave one, then?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you didn’t say she didn’t.”
The man—his nametag said “Tony”—looked around at the other patrons, who were all chatting with their neighbors in line.
He ducked his head a little and leaned toward her over the high counter. “Look, Mrs.Hanlon, I’m not supposed to be telling you this, but seeing as how you’re a minister’s wife and all, well, I guess I can tell you if you’ll keep it under your hat.”
Beauty Shop Tales Page 3
