MURDER TUNED IN (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 4)

by Leslie Leigh

  "You'll have to ask the missus. She takes care of the personnel. I do the herd and some tilling."

  "Is your wife here?"

  He looked at the barn behind him. "Gee I don’t know."

  "Anyway we can check?"

  "Ayuh. Go right on in and ask around."

  He opened the gate for her and she walked through. She looked back at him and he stood watching her and smiling, and then he gestured for her to keep on walking.

  It seemed like a very long time before she got there. A very long, manure-smelling time. She would have sworn at one point that the barn was receding as she approached, as if playing a game of chicken with her. And speaking of chickens, several of said creatures flapped and flurried out of her way with loud complaints. This was their home, they told her, and she was invading their space.

  The inside of the barn looked about what she expected it to look like. A row of stalls, each one encasing its own dairy cow lowing to itself, lined up to her right. Beyond that, two more rows. The place was large enough to house a small piper plane with room for a square dance.

  Off to the side was a door leading into what looked like a fairly modern office. Taking this door, she was indeed surprised to see that it was just that. What a contrast, she thought. How did farms function in the old days, if such an awkward melding of old and new technology seemed to suit the enterprise so well?

  "Hi there," said a robust woman.

  "I was just speaking to a man that I guess was your husband?"

  "Yes, he just texted me to say you were on your way. Allie Griffin of Green Street. You want to know who's delivering your milk?"

  "Yes. Exactly."

  "Did he tell you they take turns delivering?"

  "He did."

  "Ok..."

  "I guess he didn’t text you the rest. I need to find out who delivered on a specific day."

  "Ah. No problem," she said, turning toward a four-foot wide file cabinet behind her and sliding out the top drawer. What day was it?"

  "This morning."

  She immediately shut the drawer and turned to her desk, casting an eye upon Allie that accused her of a very slight, though precious, waste of time. She grabbed a clipboard off the top of her desk. "That'll be Jo."

  "Is he here?"

  "Jo's a girl. Josephine. She's out at the moment. Oh wait...yes, that'll be her now." The woman yelled, "Hey Jo?"

  "Yah?" answered a high-pitched voice.

  "Allie Griffin of Green Street is here to see you."

  No answer.

  "Jo?"

  "Be right back," said the voice.

  Allie went out the office door and saw the woman who had been speaking rushing toward a door in the back of the barn.

  "Wait!" Allie yelled. "Jo? Jo, I need to talk to you for just a second! I need your help!"

  Jo stopped and turned around.

  Jo was Susanna Comfort.

  Allie squinted at the diminutive girl. "I know you."

  "Hello again."

  Allie stood ten feet from the girl. The surreality of the moment faded fast and gave way to a moment of pure clarity. Clarity, with unanswered questions brewing in it.

  "We need to talk," said Allie. "Can we go somewhere?"

  After a moment's hesitation, Susanna Comfort said resolutely, "We can walk around here. There's nobody around for miles."

  #

  The sun was beginning to dip in the sky. The air smelled of manure and hay and fresh wind. It was not an unpleasant sensation to be out here in the open flatness. Vermont was a place of looming mountains. This was a welcome respite from the imposing stature the mountains asserted over everything. Even though this life wasn't for Allie Griffin, she had no trouble seeing how farmers could love their work.

  "It's strange," said Allie, "when I first met you, I would never have pictured you working here.

  "I'm an actress, Allie. You know how you can tell an actress? They're never acting."

  "I've heard similar things from Del."

  "Yeah? Well I need to make money somehow. I figure this is as good a way as any to make a buck. It's as fruitless an effort toward reaching my artistic goals as working in the quarry or waiting tables."

  Allie watched the girl move. She was small, yet muscular. She wore leather gloves that enlarged her hands. And the tan that covered her body was different from the tans of starlets or Club Med vacationers. This was a tan that had been earned over days and days of tough as nails work. Her face was soft, but her eyes and her manner of looking far off into the horizon as she spoke told the tale of countless mornings awakening to the croaking of roosters, the mournful lowing of cattle, and the chill of frost in the air. She wore a plaid shirt that was opened at the wrists. Her jeans were tough. They were the pants of a working man, or boy. Allie got the impression that Susanna Comfort could, and most likely did, win a few fights against boys on the playground. A teasing comment here or there regarding her tomboy appearance building up over time and then finally erupting. It was this impression that came over Allie as the girl spoke in harsh tones using harsh words. And the wonderful irony of her chosen stage name hit her now as well. Susanna, a folksy farm girl's name; Comfort, the sound of home and coziness and everything good and warm and billowy in life. It was the perfect dichotomy that was in this girl beside her, speaking of her life growing up with the longing to do art, to feel art, to sing and dance. And how it was next to impossible to convince her father that this was her dream, to be like the people she saw in movies. Studying hard. Reading. Learning about the theater and all the wonderful things that the theater was capable of bringing to people. It was as human as working on a farm and growing and nurturing things for people to use and to eat. In other words, it was exactly what Jo—Susanna Comfort—was in her heart of hearts.

  "I hate to ask you this, but I need to know why you did it."

  "Why'd I do what?"

  "Write that note."

  "What note?"

  "Come on, Jo— Susanna, whatever your name is. Someone left a note in my milk delivery this morning. I know it was the person delivering the milk who left it. Beautiful Soup? A reference to Alice?"

  There was a very subtle change in the girl's features. Perhaps too subtle for someone not looking for it. Allie had been looking for it.

  "How did you know it was me?"

  "Well, the reference to Sally Kane, for one thing, was a pretty big tip-off."

  "No. I mean that letter could've been written by anyone and then left there. How did you know it was the person who actually delivered your milk?"

  "Oh. Well, because of the way it was folded. Anyone delivering a secret note would take care to fold it completely. This one was folded just enough to fit into the cooler without unfolding on its own. It was almost rolled. It took me a minute to realize it, but it was folded in the exact manner that my milk bill is folded when it's shoved into the mailbox."

  Whatever subtle change had begun across the girl's face was now asserting itself unabashedly.

  "I'm still waiting," said Allie. "Why did you do it?"

  The girl bit her bottom lip. "I read about you. About the rich girl being murdered in your home. There are stories about it all over the Internet. They said you're good with codes."

  "They say a lot of things on the Internet. I'm not that good with codes. I just know where to look."

  "Well then I guess that's all that was needed. You're here, aren’t you?"

  Susanna Comfort was obviously beating around the bush and it was starting to test Allie's patience.

  "Fair enough. So why did you do it?"

  The girl looked around, as if to check and see if maybe a spy drone was hovering somewhere nearby. Then she turned back to Allie. "Someone had to tip you off. I was afraid to."

  "Afraid of what?"

  Susanna Comfort smiled incredulously. "You really don’t know? That organization she belonged to, it's not a joke. I wouldn’t want to be caught tipping you off. Do you understand where I'm going here?"
>
  "Jo— I'm sorry, what do I call you?"

  "Susanna is fine. I'm going to have it legally changed."

  "Susanna, you have no reason to fear that I'm going to reveal who told me what. I'd never put you in any danger. I have friends on the force."

  "Not that detective guy."

  "Ok, not him. But others. I'll never reveal the source of my information."

  The girl became visibly nervous. "What are you going to do next? Tell the cops?"

  "I might give them a lead or two once I'm sure my info is good."

  "Who do you think did it?"

  The question caught Allie off guard for a moment.

  "Me? Um, I don’t know. I mean, I think I know what type of person killed Sally Kane."

  "Ok," said Susanna Comfort, "then what type of person did it?"

  "Someone who hated her enough to watch her die in that way. Strangulation is an angry method of murder. It takes strength and a steel nerve to watch someone die in that manner."

  The girl licked her lips. The sound of her tongue revealed a very dry mouth. "Tad Mills hated her."

  "Yes he did. But he didn’t kill her. It's a process of elimination."

  "Ok," said Susanna.

  Allie watched her for a moment. The girl didn’t return her gaze, but instead chose to focus on a cloud formation building slowly far off, edging toward them like a stalking ghost.

  "Storm coming?" asked Allie.

  The girl nodded. "Several."

  9.

  She and Tad walked through the stacks at the Verdenier Public Library. This was her sanctuary. It was like a church, so quiet, so reverent, and so conducive to deep thought. They walked through the 700 section—the Arts—and they spoke quietly.

  "How do you know Angus had good relative pitch?" she asked.

  "Just by working with him," said the tall choreographer. "It's a pure delight when I'm able to stump him. He's normally so arrogant that it's fun correcting him when he's wrong. It happened the day Sally was killed."

  "How?"

  "When were drinking the champagne. He clinked his glass and without even thinking about it, Angus said it was in a certain key. C sharp, I think. I told him it was D natural. I could see the defeat in his face. It was exquisite."

  There was that word again: glass. It kept coming back to her. "How many of you got real glasses?" she asked.

  "There were only six of them, so only the people with the top credits got them: myself, Ben, Sally, Angus, and two others, I can’t remember. A stagehand, I think. Ernie is his name? And another person." He snapped his fingers. "Of course, Susanna Comfort."

  "Where did they get them?"

  "Probably from props. I don’t know. Maybe Angus brought them."

  "This is very interesting. Are you forgetting that Sally had a glass? And it was poisoned."

  "I forgot about that. I guess she did."

  "The first murder I ever solved involved a case of switching a regular cup for a poisoned one. I hadn’t even thought that this business with Sally's glass was the first throwback to that case. The letter was the second."

  "What letter?"

  "I can’t talk. I think I'm onto something. Are you going to be available over the next few days?"

  "Honey, I'm out of a job for the time being."

  "Good, I may need you."

  10.

  "It's a fact that whoever killed Sally Kane hated her," said Allie, serving a piece of homemade raspberry pie with a dollop of melting chocolate ice cream on top. "There are many different kinds of hate. There's envy, for one."

  "Ok," said Del, leaning forward on the couch to grab the plate on the coffee table. "Talk me through this one."

  "Everyone had a reason to want to kill Sally. Tad hated her and her ideology. Any non-union stagehand probably hated her as well. And Susanna Comfort hated her."

  "Susanna? How so?"

  "The understudy. You said it yourself. She has a great voice. But she's not glamorous like Sally Kane was. She's tomboyish. When you’ve been like that your whole life, it's a lot of work to break people's perceptions to convince them that you can be every bit as glamorous as someone else who seems to go about it naturally."

  "You think Susanna was that jealous?"

  "Jealous and envious. Yes."

  "What's the difference?"

  "A subtle one. Jealousy involves a third entity. For instance. I'm attractive. This other girl is also attractive. A guy gives his attention to her and not me. I'm jealous. There's a sense of outrage there. If I don’t feel I'm attractive and someone else is, there's envy—in other words, no sense of outrage or betrayal. Envy involves just two people; jealousy, three. Susanna and Sally Kane were both equally talented, Susanna maybe a bit more. Yet Sally possessed a quality that Susanna would love to have possessed herself and she was overlooked because of that. And there was jealousy there with the third entity being Angus. Not feeling glamorous enough herself and then looking at Sally Kane, it's easy to see how she could be envious of her appearance and poise. Envy and jealousy can be a lethal combination. The poor self-image of one plays against the outrage and feelings of betrayal of the other. Envy is the gasoline. Jealousy is the match."

  "Girl, you need to write this stuff down."

  "I'll do it tomorrow. Right now, I'm dealing with motives."

  "You forgot someone: Angus."

  "Right," said Allie. "Angus." She thought for a moment. "Angus was not in control of that affair. I saw it the first day I laid eyes on the two of them together. The way they sat next to each other. He angled toward her, she turned away. There was motive there. The oldest one in the book, as a matter of fact."

  "Ok, now what?"

  "Access to the weapon. That was everyone. Everyone was in that theater. The trunk with the ropes was open." Allie sprung up. "Tape!"

  Del, startled by the sudden outburst, spilled her ice cream onto her lap. "Please don’t do that. And could you get me a paper towel and some seltzer? This is going to set."

  Allie got up to fetch the items and spoke while she did so. "There were different colored tapes on the ropes," she yelled from the kitchen. "That guy Ernie told me it's an old stagehand's trick..."

  Allie wore a charm bracelet.

  This is significant not because of the charms themselves, which were perfect models of the original Tenniel illustrations of various characters from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland—or "Mr. Dodgson's masterpiece", as Allie obscurely liked to call it—but because they dangled from her wrist in such a way that they often knocked against and got caught on things—clothes, fabric, curtains—to Allie's extreme annoyance. She'd been blinded to the possible mishaps that could occur when she’d stumbled upon the bracelet on eBay.

  So here she was, reaching for the paper towels. In order to do so, she had to step over Dinah, who'd found a cat-friendly spot right in the middle of the kitchen between the sink and the island with the paper towel stand on it. Dinah, like all cats, had a habit of plopping her oversized body down wherever she felt served the feline whim. Getting her up would require a shovel. It was much easier to step over her. And this Allie did.

  She had to balance herself against the rack with the Williams Sonoma wine glasses. Not a wise thing to do, for the rack was only big enough and sturdy enough to fit on the kitchen island. It was not manufactured with the purpose of being a grabbing post for anyone wishing to avoid any manner of cat-trampling. So she let go of the rack and grabbed the corner of the island instead. She still lost her balance. And she stumbled a bit. And in doing so, a couple of her charms knocked against the wine glasses. A peal of gorgeous chimes rang out.

  This made Allie think.

  When Allie began to think like this, people sometimes wound up with milkshake stains on their pants that set in.

  Allie reached under the counter cabinets and took out a stainless steel pasta pot. She flicked a finger against it. A wonderful metallic sound rang out. She went to the sink and turned on the tap. She flicked the pot again and th
en placed it under the tap.

  Something wonderful happened. The sound decreased rapidly in pitch. It made a beautiful cascading sound. She'd been aware of this phenomenon already. A number of times, draining pasta from this very pot, she'd knocked it against the tap while pouring it out, and then that strange sound, the swirling tone like the hum of a space alien, rang out.

  She went back to the living room.

  "Were you making pasta in there?" asked Del. "And where's my paper towel and seltzer?"

  "I'm so sorry. Let me get them."

  "I got it," Del said, rising from the couch. "You have that look on your face."

  "What look?"

  "The one that says 'I can't concentrate on anything because I just discovered a problem that's using up a hundred percent of my brain energy.' So I got this."

  Del disappeared into the kitchen. And Allie paced.

  After a moment, she called out "I'm going out for a bit. You can hang around if you want. I won’t be long."

  "Whatever," Del called from the kitchen. Allie heard the swish of a seltzer bottle opening.

  And Allie grabbed her coat and headed out to see Ben.

  11.

  "Teach me more about pitch," Allie said the moment Ben opened the door.

  "Hello to you too."

  "Is this a bad time?"

  "I'm expecting Madonna here any minute."

  "You wouldn’t be this composed."

  "You got me. Come on in."

  The cottage was in its usual state of disarray, but something was different. There was a peculiar smell in the air. Like a combination of sour milk and lemons.

  "What is that," she said, wrinkling up her nose. In trying to discern the origin of the smell, she noticed a stack of books on the coffee table, all of which had to do with the art of cheesemaking.

  "It’s still here? God, I hoped you wouldn’t notice."

  A laugh erupted from Allie's chest.

  "Amusing, is it?" he said without smiling.

  "I'm sorry. You’re making cheese?"

  "From a kit; I think it's defective."

  She laughed again.

  "You want to let the rest of the class in on the joke?"