Heaven Preserve Us: A Home Crafting Mystery (A Home Crafting Mystery)

by Cricket McRae

  Ruth and I both stared at her. Good at her job Lane might be, but good with people she definitely was not. She seemed to think anyone who lived in a small town must possess less than an average IQ.

   

  "Of course I want that, Detective," Ruth said. "I'm just not sure I can tell you anything more. I was in my carport, unloading a few supplies from the grocery store from the car when he came at me from behind. He was wearing a mask, so I didn't see his face. He didn't say anything. He punched me, knocked me down, and left. That's all. I told you again and again. I didn't see anything else."

  Detective Lane scowled. "He didn't say anything?"

  Ruth darted a glance my direction. I raised my eyebrows. "No," she said. "Not a thing."

  "Can you tell me what he was wearing? How tall he was? Build? Any smells you noticed? His breath, maybe?"

  "No. Nothing. I don't remember any of that."

  I moved a visitor's chair closer to the bed and sat down as Lane continued to hammer away with her questions. Something was off, but I couldn't figure out what. Ruth was vehement as she denied knowing anything more about the attack or the attacker. Could she be blocking out part of the event and feel embarrassed that she couldn't remember? Or was she holding something back?

  "Okay, one last question." Detective Lane's tone held frustration. "Have you been getting any funny phone calls lately?"

  Ruth looked puzzled. "What do you mean, funny?"

  "Peculiar. Obscene. A strange man wanting to talk to you, but he won't tell you who he is. Even hang ups."

  I ignored the shiver that skittered down my spine.

  "No. Nothing like that."

  Detective Lane flipped the notebook closed and gathered her coat from the chair by the window. "Thank you Ms. Black. I hope you feel better soon. If you think of anything that might be help ful, please give me a call. Ms. Reynolds, may I speak with you a moment outside?"

   

  I stood. "Sure"

  Ruth tried to sit up, gasped, and fell back.

  "I'll be right back," I said. "I promise."

  She nodded, but didn't say anything.

  Outside, Detective Lane led me toward the elevators, away from a curious Thaddeus Black.

  "I don't know why she'd fight me on this. She must know more."

  I bristled.

  "Now, settle down," she said. "I'm only trying to help. She may just be scared. And sometimes I'm not very good at putting people at ease."

  I gave her a look, which she at least had the good grace to take with a sheepish grin.

  "So when you're talking with her, see if you can't find out more about what happened. You're her friend. She'll talk to you. I especially want to know more about any phone calls."

  "Like I've been getting."

  "Well, sort of. More menacing, frankly. Why, are you still getting calls?"

  "Why, yes, thank you for asking, Detective. I got one last night while I was at Heaven House."

  Displeasure settled on her face, and she tossed that gorgeous mane of hair. "You need to be careful. You're on someone's radar. Whether it's the Creep's or not, I don't know."

  "At the police station you made it sound like my little stalker was a joke," I said, my voice rising.

   

  She pressed her lips together. "It didn't sound like the same guy. But neither does this, and the attack was quite violent. You shouldn't go anywhere alone. So far he hasn't attacked anyone who wasn't alone."

  "I can't alter my whole life."

  "You can. Or it might just be altered for you."

  Her authoritarian tone raised my hackles, but that last statement resonated in my gut.

  "What if Ruth really didn't get any phone calls?" I asked.

  "Then your Cadyville Creep is stepping things up. And that makes him even more dangerous than before."

  With a certain amount of trepidation, I returned to my friend's room.

  Thaddeus had returned to his niece's bedside, but as soon as I walked in she shooed him away. He left with the attitude of someone who was content to do what he was told.

  "Shut the door," Ruth said.

  I reached behind me and swung the door closed.

  "All the way."

  The latch snicked into place. I waited, half afraid to hear she wanted to tell me. Had her attacker done more to hurt her than was evident? No. She would have told Detective Lane and the hospital staff. Ruth was no shrinking violet, no way, no how.

  She took a deep breath, which made her wince again, which made me wince in sympathy. "That man? The one the Eye is calling the Cadyville Creep?"

  "Did you remember something else about him?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "No. I didn't have to. He's not the one who did this to me."

   

  I sank into the visitor's chair. "Ruth? Who hurt you? Do you know?"

  "Yes. No. I know who didn't attack me. That Creep man."

  I spoke carefully. "And how do you know that?"

  Silence. I waited it out. She'd wanted to talk to me. If she had to summon her resources first, I'd let her.

  When the pause had grown to fill the room, she finally said in a low voice, "You can't tell anyone. Promise me."

  I shook my head. "I can't promise that without knowing what you're going to tell me."

  "You have to."

  "Just tell me whatever it is."

  "No. Promise or leave."

  "Oh, come on"

  "I mean it."

  Her eyes told me she did mean it. Knowing I'd regret it, and feeling completely bamboozled, I said. "Fine. I promise not to tell anyone. Now, spill."

  Her eyes held mine for a few moments, gauging whether I'd merely told a convenient lie. "Whoever it was knew about my beets. And about the other beets, the ones that killed Philip."

  "What!"

  "Shhhh. Not so loud. I don't want Thad to hear."

  "Good Lord, Ruth, why not? What really happened in your carport this evening? Did it even happen in your carport?"

  "Of course it did. I didn't lie about anything." Fear infused her features. "I'm sorry, Sophie Mae. I shouldn't have insisted you come out here, especially in the snow and all. I was just frightened by the whole experience, and my daughter lives in Arizona, and-"

   

  "Ruth, please, I'm glad you had Thaddeus call. You must have been terrified. Please tell me what I can do."

  She took a shaky breath and closed her eyes. "Maybe you could check on Uncle Thad over the next couple of days? They want to keep me in here for observation after what happened." She opened her eyes, staring up at the ceiling. "I'm kind of an old fart to get beaten up, and since I take a blood thinner, they're afraid of complications."

  Dread settled in my solar plexus, but I tried not to show it on my face. "I'm sure you'll be fine, and Meghan and I will be happy to check in on Thaddeus."

  "Thank you."

  "Now. Are you going to tell me more about what happened?" The bit about her attacker mentioning beets was chafing at my brain like sandpaper.

  "I'm not saying anything more."

  "But, Ruth..."

  "He said he'd hurt Uncle Thad if I told anyone, Sophie Mae. I've already placed too much temptation in your way. I know you promised not to tell, but if, after all, you decide you know best, I swear on everything I hold dear I'll deny everything except what I already told Detective Lane."

  Try though I might, I couldn't get her to change her mind.

   

  TWENTY-THREE

  THE CLATTER OF DISHES woke me Sunday morning, and I rolled over to look at the clock. Seven thirty. Not bad. I'd managed to get a few good hours of sleep and felt almost refreshed. Sucking in a deep breath, I threw back the covers and slipped into my poofy robe.

  I needed coffee, and I needed it now. Then a shower, and down to my workroom to put together six dozen air fresheners. Kyla and Cyan, who were coming in for a couple of hours in the afternoon, could label and wrap them for packing, and I'd hav
e UPS Joe pick them up the next morning.

  Plus, I wanted to tell Meghan and Barr what had happened to Ruth, and the more I thought about what Kelly had told us about James Dreggle's letter, the more I wanted to talk to Maryjake and get a feeling for what she knew.

  Erin's bed was empty, the covers pulled up to the pillows. Down the hall, the door to the spare bedroom was open. Barr stood by the window, dressed in a clean pair of sweatpants and a navy, waffle-weave V-neck. I missed the bolo ties he always wore to work. His usual cowboy boots had been replaced by a pair of sheepskin slippers.

   

  "I'll get dressed later," he said in an apologetic tone as I ran my gaze up and down his lanky figure.

  I smiled. "Don't bother. You're allowed to take it easy."

  "Maybe" His eyes crinkled at the corners, and he glanced around the room. "You store some interesting things in here." He had a framed photograph in his hand, and now he held it out to me.

  Oh, no. Not that.

  Bundles of lavender hung from the ceiling, gathered from our garden last summer and suspended to dry. The scent inundated the room, and I took a deep lungful, curiously uncomfortable to see that particular picture in the hands of the man I seemed to be falling in love with.

  He grinned. "You're beautiful."

  My hand flew to my frizzed braid despite the fact that he was talking about the picture, not my current state of morning dishevelment.

  "Here, I'll take that," I said.

  He narrowed his eyes. I shouldn't have shown my eagerness to take the photo away from him.

  The wedding photo.

  Mike and Sophie Mae Reynolds. Getting hitched. Until death did we part. It seemed like we'd been married for a long time, until he got sick. Now, in my middle thirties, I knew the mere six years we'd had together had been only a drop in the bucket of time.

  If Barr wanted to snoop around and look at my old pictures, fine. But I didn't want to look at that one. I hadn't, not since Mike had died over five years ago.

   

  "Sophie Mae," Barr breathed.

  "What?" I sounded cranky.

  "You were so ... you were a lovely bride."

  "Urn. Thanks." Did that mean I wasn't so lovely now, eleven years later? Well, what do you expect, Sophie Mae? Eleven years is eleven years. You're a widow, for heaven's sake.

  "Come here."

  I walked slowly toward him, then strode the last few steps, faking a confidence I didn't feel. Might as well get it over with. He held the picture out, and I took it.

  Mike looked so young. That fresh face. That expression of amused intelligence. I missed his wicked sense of humor.

  Then I looked at myself. Well, I don't know about lovely, I thought, but not bad. Not bad at all.

  My green eyes sparkled with happiness, and my skin glowed smooth and tan. My hair, even longer then, fell in snaky curls down to my waist. I didn't wear a veil, only a single lavender orchid tucked in among the loose blonde waves.

  "You ever think about getting married again?" he asked.

  "I ... no, not ... I don't know." What was I supposed to say? Ack! "Have you eaten yet?" I blurted.

  He looked surprised, but answered without protest. "No"

  "How about some huevos rancheros?"

  Carefully replacing the photo in the box from which he'd taken it, he nodded. "Sounds excellent."

  "Get back in bed. I'll bring it to you."

  "You don't need to do that..." But he was moving slowly toward Erin's room.

   

  "Trust me-don't get used to it," I warned over my shoulder. "This is aberrant behavior for me."

  I scrambled eggs and constructed a plate of food while I filled Meghan in on Ruth's attack. I know, I know-I promised not to tell anyone. If Ruth had spilled everything she knew about the man who attacked her, I would've felt a lot guiltier, but she'd practically given me permission by saying she'd deny it anyway. Never mind that that rationalization might not make sense to anyone but me.

  Keeping the story short, I pointed out that my theory about Philip being murdered was supported by what Ruth had told me. Meghan reluctantly agreed. She also said she'd stop by and check on Thaddeus Black that afternoon on her way to Caladia Acres for a massage therapy session.

  I took a tray up to Barr, who was obediently propped against an assortment of pillows and stuffed animals. He peered at what I held: new potatoes roasted brown in a hot oven, covered with chili con carne, then a layer of eggs scrambled with green onion, topped with grated cheddar cheese, guacamole and sour cream. A little bowl of salsa perched on the side in case he wanted some heat first thing in the morning.

  Setting the tray on his lap, he took a swig of orange juice and dumped all the salsa on his rancheros. I took that as a good sign.

  While he worked his way through breakfast, I snagged the occasional bite from his plate and repeated what I'd told Meghan about Ruth. I assured him that I believed her about denying everything. Ruth had a better poker face than I did, and I bet she could lie a lot better, too. Of the two of us, she'd be the most convincing.

   

  I was lucky that both Meghan and Barr believed me. Unlike Meghan, however, he wanted to try and convince Ruth to talk to Detective Lane.

  "She won't do it. You're more than welcome to try, but she's dug her heels in. Plus," I added, "it would prove I'm not trustworthy."

  "You're not."

  "Hey-"

  "And you shouldn't be, not for this. She should know that."

  "She does. That's why she stopped herself from telling me, even though what happened obviously terrifies her."

  "Do you think she knows who the killer is?"

  I shook my head. "She's frightened, not stupid. If she could pinpoint Philip's murderer, she'd broadcast it far and wide." Chewing on a bite of chili beans and egg, I considered. "When will you check out Kelly's story?"

  "I've already called."

  I looked at him in surprise.

  "What, you think I'm not going to get my butt out of bed just because you slept in this morning? I've been up for hours."

  "Hours-right," I said. "Did I mention I was at the hospital in the middle of the night?"

  He grinned at me. I wrinkled my nose at him. "So what did you find out?"

  "Nothing yet," he said. "I should know more this afternoon."

  "When is he supposed to bring over the letter James wrote?"

  "Sometime today."

  "If we take him at his word, James is our primary suspect, right?"

  "Sophie Mae..."

   

  "I'm just going to drop by Heaven House and have a chat with Maryjake. You'd think she'd know whether her husband killed her lover."

  "No, you can't-"

  "Gosh, should we wait for Detective Lane to do it?"

  He glared at me.

  "Or maybe you'd like to put your badge in your pocket and go talk to her yourself."

  Anger flashed across his face. "Maybe I will" He put the half-eaten plate of huevos rancheros on the bed and swung his legs over. Standing quickly, he strode to where I'd hung his clothes in the closet.

  "Oh, now, stop that."

  He ignored me.

  "I'm not driving you"

  He ignored that, too.

  But when he reached down for his shoes, he stumbled and nearly fell. I managed to catch him and get him to the bed.

  "Dizzy?"

  He was breathing as if he'd been running around the block.

  "Criminy, I can't believe they let you out of the hospital. Now stop being so macho and get back in bed. Eat the rest of your breakfast." I marched to the door. "I'm sorry I made you mad, but I was just making a point: if I don't talk to Maryjake, no one will."

  A steady rain melted the snow. It filled the ditches with freezing water and made everything gray again. The flood plain south of town would be a glistening sheet of wetness, punctuated by the spears of spent corn stalks. If we were lucky, the rivers wouldn't climb over their banks.<
br />
   

  I had to assume Maryjake herself wasn't the killer. Even in the dark, Ruth wouldn't have mistaken her for a man, nor could I see Maryjake beating the older woman black and blue. Still, I'd keep my mouth shut about the attack on Ruth; I may have broken my promise by telling Meghan and Barr what I knew, but I wasn't going to endanger Ruth-or Thaddeus-any more by blabbing it far and wide.

  Maryjake was ensconced behind her desk at HH as I had hoped, looking rumpled and sleepy. Her eyes turned wary when she saw me walk in the door.

  "Hey," she said.

  "Hey." I glanced around. No one else was in the big room, and the burgeoning conference room and game rooms were silent. "Got a minute?"

  She looked dubious. "I guess so."

  "Good" I pulled the wooden chair that sat next to her desk around to the opposite side so I could look directly into her eyes. "Were you having an affair with Philip?"

  The blood drained out of her face. It was weird to watch.

  "Wh ... what?"

  "Listen, Maryjake. I'm not in the greatest mood, and I don't have time nor inclination to pussyfoot around. Besides, I already know the answer. I guess the question I should be asking is, how much did James know about the affair?"

  I hadn't thought she could lose any more color, but it turned out she could.

  "The point here is not that I'm a snoop," I continued. "Well, maybe it is, a little, but it shouldn't be. The point is that someone killed Philip on purpose by giving him botulism, and it could very well be your husband because you were having an affair with your boss."

   

  Her swallow was audible. Maybe this whole trying-for-subtlety thing was a bust. Getting straight to the point seemed to work perfectly well. I'd have to remember that.

  Then her eyes welled up with big, glossy tears that spilled over onto her cheeks, and she grabbed at my hand lying on the desk between us.

  Crap.

  "Is there something you want to tell me?" I asked. "Something about James?"

  She shook her head, sending the saline flying. At least she wasn't sobbing hysterically. Yet.

  "How about the money that's gone missing here at HH?"

  "What?" She looked more confused than she had in response to any question so far.