Despite the recent tragedy, there was a happy bustle of pre-Christmas excitement in the Blue Onion. Quinn had placed a pine-wreathed candle on each of the antique tables, and garlands framed the front windows, which were filled with her Christmas cookie display. The cafe was packed with locals, most of them women, talking about holiday shopping, baking, travel plans—and, unless the Buttercup grapevine had dried up in the past twenty-four hours, the mysterious death of Krystal Jenkins.
Ben O’Neill was here this morning, I noticed, tucked into a corner table with Faith Zapalac, their heads bent over a pile of papers that looked like property listings. Why could he possibly want to buy more property? I wondered. He already owned over one hundred acres of the most beautiful land in Buttercup.
I headed over to the table with the church ladies first. “Hello,” I greeted them with a smile. “I’ll be taking over as your server.”
The two ladies turned to me, both with mouths that looked as if their primary hobby were sucking grapefruits. “We’re waiting for our chicken salad,” the shorter of the two said in a tart, prim voice.
“I’ll get right on it,” I told her. “I hear your church is about to be famous,” I said.
The transformation was almost instantaneous; the taller woman’s sour mouth turned into a dreamy smile. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Pastor Matheson is going to spread the Word all through the country.”
“That’s terrific,” I said. “When does the show start?”
“They’re filming the pilot next Sunday.”
“I understand you knew Krystal Jenkins from church,” I said casually.
“Of course,” the woman answered. “I’m the church secretary, Wanda Karp; I know everyone. This is my friend, Ethel, by the way. Ethel Froehlich.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, smiling. Ethel looked as if she’d eaten something that disagreed with her; she gave me a wan smile. “Did you know Krystal well?” I asked. “We’ve been hoping to find her next of kin.”
“She was not a godly woman,” Wanda said before Ethel could answer. Although she wore a drab dress buttoned up to her chin, her highlighted hair was a spun-sugar confection she’d obviously spent quite some time creating, and she wore a heavy coat of foundation, topped off with pink lipstick. She had a 1950s mannequin-like feel to her, right down to the plasticized skin; it was a little bit disconcerting.
“It’s not right to speak ill of the dead,” Ethel said, looking upset. “She was a nice girl.”
“You were just sweet on her,” Wanda said. “You couldn’t see her for what she really was.”
“She was a good girl,” Ethel said in a quiet voice. She looked like she was close to tears.
“Ethel had a soft spot for her,” Wanda said. “Now, as Ethel said, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” she said in a tone of voice that made me suspect just the opposite, “but—”
Ethel shot her a look that made her snap her mouth shut. Before I could ask another question, the front door crashed open and a woman staggered into the Blue Onion.
“Where’s Krystal?” she slurred, stumbling into a table full of ladies from the Brethren Church before falling face-first to the floor.
Silence descended on the cafe. Except for Frank Sinatra, who continued crooning about angels from the little speaker by the cash register, nobody made a peep.
Wanda hissed, “I told you. She was trouble, that girl.”
Her words galvanized me into action. I trotted across the cafe floor toward the fallen woman. She wore a tank top, tight jeans, and boots that were caked in mud. Her blonde hair was greasy, and she reeked of liquor. “Ma’am?” I asked, touching her shoulder.
She lifted her head. “Where is she?”
“If you’re looking for Krystal,” I said, “I’m afraid you won’t find her here.” How could I tell her Krystal was dead? I didn’t know how she knew her—or what she might do if she found out Krystal had died. “Can I help you up?”
With my help, she staggered to her feet. “Where is she?” she repeated.
“How do you know Krystal?” I asked.
“She’s my twin sister!” the woman announced.
Ethel let out a strangled sound behind me. I swallowed, wondering what to do. I didn’t feel comfortable taking the woman outside into the cold, but I didn’t want to seat her in the cafe, either; plus, she might be able to help us figure out what had happened to Krystal. After a moment’s indecision, I said, “Come with me,” and steered her toward the kitchen. The drunk woman leaned on me heavily as we navigated toward the swinging door. “Krystal,” she moaned. “Gotta see Krystal.”
We pushed into the kitchen as Quinn finished ladling baked potato soup into a bowl. She looked up, startled. “Who is that? What are you doing?”
“This is Krystal’s sister,” I told her as another wave of alcoholic breath broke over me. She appeared to have applied eyeliner at some point, but it had since migrated south; she looked as if she had two shiners.
“Brandi,” the woman supplied.
She was appropriately named, I thought. Although the way she smelled, I thought “Whiskey” might have been closer to the mark.
“Oh,” Quinn said, as the woman lurched toward the refrigerator. “Oh, my.”
“She’s looking for Krystal,” I said.
Quinn’s eyebrows rose as she figured out what I was saying. Then she leaped into action, grabbing a stool and hurrying over toward us. “Can you cover the tables again for a moment, Tori?”
“Of course,” the young woman said, round eyed.
Quinn turned to Brandi. “Sit down, Brandi.”
“Where is she?” she asked again when we had her sitting up, half-propped against a wall. “She said she worked here when she called. Don’t know why she’d still be working as a waitress, though,” she slurred, looking around the kitchen. “Said she hit the jackpot.”
“Jackpot?” I asked.
“That’s right,” she said. “She told me she had enough to take care of both of us.”
Quinn and I stared at each other. Had Krystal—maybe with the help of her uncle—found some kind of treasure after all?
Even if she had, we still had some awful news to deliver.
“She . . . your sister had an accident,” Quinn said, touching her shoulder.
Brandi squinted, looking confused. “Accident?”
“Yes,” Quinn said. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but . . . your sister’s passed.”
The young woman blinked at her. “She what?”
“She died,” Quinn said softly. “The police didn’t know where to find you, or they would have notified you sooner. I’m so sorry.”
“Died,” she repeated. “Krystal.” She blinked a few more times, and a tear rolled down her mascara-streaked cheek. “No,” she said, trying to stand up. “That can’t be right.”
“Do you have someplace to stay in town?”
“She was my twin sister!” she said, her voice breaking. Tori pushed through the door and looked at Quinn; I knew the orders were piling up out there.
“Do you want me to take over?” I mouthed to Tori.
She shook her head and pointed to the weeping woman. “Stay with her,” she whispered to me.
I turned back to Brandi, patting her shoulder as she cried.
“I can’t believe she’s gone,” she said. “I just talked with her a few days ago . . . she can’t be dead!”
“Were you and Krystal close?” I asked gently.
“Used to be,” she said, wiping her smudgy tears away. “Back when we lived with Uncle Buster. Had to stick together with that one.”
“Why?”
She snorted. “You think Buster was gonna take care of us? He was too busy cleanin’ his guns and collectin’ junk. We were lucky he remembered to go to the grocery store.”
“I heard he’s a treasure hunter, too.”
“You got that right. All he ever talked about was that ol’ Confederate general, and how there were millions right under
our noses.”
“Did he?” I asked. “Do you think that’s what Krystal meant when she was talking about a jackpot?”
Brandi gave me a surprisingly shrewd look. “Why do you care so much about the money?”
I took a deep breath. “Because someone poisoned your sister,” I told her.
She blinked. “Poisoned . . . what? Why? She was so nice . . . too nice, sometimes.” Brandi burst into tears again. “We were gonna be together. Everything was finally gonna be all right. And now this . . .”
I pulled her into a hug, letting her sob in my arms. “I’m so sorry,” I murmured as she cried.
Finally she pulled back and wiped at her eyes. “If I find out who did this to my sister . . .”
“Is there anything you can think of that might help us figure it out?” I asked.
“All I know is she said she came into some money,” she told me. “And her boyfriend broke up with her.”
Quinn and I exchanged looks. “We’ve been wondering about him . . . thinking maybe he had something to do with what happened to Krystal.”
Brandi looked up at me. “You mean, you think he killed her?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. Did she mention his name?”
She shook her head slowly. “No. Only that he was the love of her life, except she said they met too late.”
Met too late? Why? Because he was already involved with someone else? He wasn’t around for Thanksgiving, and the relationship was hush-hush . . . I was starting to think Krystal’s boyfriend—ex-boyfriend, that was—might be married. I didn’t know of any divorces in progress . . . but it was always possible the mystery man was stringing Krystal along.
“Nothing else that might help us identify him?” I asked.
She shook her head. “We hadn’t talked much until she called the other day. She told me she’d tell me more when I got here. And now . . .”
I squeezed her shoulder.
“Did she say anything about a secret admirer?” Quinn asked from where she was putting together a plate of chicken salad.
She shook her head. “Like I said, we were going to talk when I got here.” A sob wracked her thin body.
“Do you need a place to stay while you’re in town?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said miserably.
“Well, if you decide you do, I’ve got room,” I said. “I’ll give you my number.”
“Thanks,” she said. “What I really need is a drink.”
I wasn’t about to give her one of those.
“We should probably take her over to talk to Rooster,” Quinn said.
“You think?” I asked.
“If Brandi can tell him about Krystal’s boyfriend, he might take it seriously.”
“Maybe,” I said. “You’re probably right.” I turned back to Brandi. “Plus, he can tell you more about your sister.”
“Poor Krystal.” Brandi looked miserable, mascara streaking down her cheeks.
“Ready? It’s not far. I’ll give you my number; you can call when you’re done.”
“I guess,” she said.
I levered the young woman up off the chair and toward the back door, thinking maybe if Brandi told Rooster about the “jackpot” Krystal had theoretically found, he’d be inclined to investigate further. I certainly was.
“Sorry to leave you in the lurch,” I murmured to Quinn as she opened the glass door for me.
“Are you kidding me? Thanks for taking care of her,” she said.
“Of course. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I told her, and we stepped out into the wintry sun.
Rooster wasn’t in the office when we arrived, so Opal made a pot of coffee and plied Brandi with it, hoping to sober her up. I sat next to Brandi on one of the plastic chairs in the front room of the station, which was situated in an old house. Opal had the station tuned to Christmas carols, so as I helped Brandi to a plastic chair in the front office, “Joy to the World” played softly in the background. Unfortunately, I thought as Brandi plunked herself down, almost missing the chair, this Christmas season had been anything but joyous.
“That one looks like she’s been rode hard and put up wet,” Opal murmured to me as she poured herself a mug of coffee.
I had to agree with her; Brandi might have been Krystal’s twin sister, but she looked at least ten years older, with sunken eyes and lines around her thin, drooping mouth.
“Any word on Brittany?” I asked Opal in a quiet voice.
She shook her head, looking grim despite her reindeer sweater and candy-cane earrings. “Nothing yet. I’ve been on the phone with Dallas and Houston . . . they’ve got everyone out looking for the Mathesons’ SUV.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Did Rooster talk with the Mathesons?”
“He did,” she said. “They’re not too het up about it, though. Although they might be trying to keep a low profile on account of the TV show they’re tryin’ to launch.”
I sighed. I never would understand some folks’ priorities. “Molly doing okay?”
“I gave her a stack of magazines a little while ago,” she said. “Alfie’s working on springing her as soon as they can get a bail hearing.”
“Can I go back and see her in a minute?”
She glanced around. “As long as Rooster doesn’t turn up.”
“I hear your cousin was sweet on Krystal Jenkins,” I said.
She shook her head. “Poor Dougie. I keep tellin’ him to give Flora a spin—that woman is loaded—but he only had eyes for Krystal. He’s barely eaten since she passed.”
“Does he have any idea who might have killed her?”
“Not a bit,” she said, and shivered. “I’m just glad she didn’t give us that poison bread. Dougie and I ate the whole loaf last week.”
So Dougie had access to Molly’s friendship bread, I thought. Had he left some on Krystal’s front porch? I wondered, but didn’t say anything to Opal.
Opal adjusted a candy-cane earring and grimaced. “Not the best December for the Kramers, is it?”
“You can say that again,” I said as she poured two cups of coffee, and we walked back to Brandi. I handed the young woman the fresh cup and sat down next to her. “When did Krystal call you?”
“Day before yesterday,” she said.
“Did she tell you how she came by this . . . windfall?”
“Just that she’d hit the jackpot,” she said. “Wouldn’t tell me anything else. Wanted me to go to rehab.”
Not a bad idea, I was thinking. “When was the last time you saw her?” I asked.
She squinted. “Must have been what . . . two years ago?” she said, swirling the coffee around in its Styrofoam cup and sloshing a good bit of it onto the hardwood floor. “Right around Christmas. We were at Uncle Buster’s place. Got anything stronger than this?”
“No,” Opal and I said in unison.
“Did you know much about your sister’s life?” I asked.
“Like I told you, her boyfriend broke up with her,” Brandi said, then slurped some coffee. “She was torn up about it. He turned out to be married.” Ah; I was right. She took another swig of coffee, and tears welled in her eyes again. “I told her she’d find her a good guy someday. But now she never will.”
At that moment, the door opened, and Rooster swaggered in. He took one look at me and his beady eyes narrowed, his wattle jiggling under his fleshy chin. So much for visiting Molly. “What are you doing here?”
“This is Krystal Jenkins’s sister, Sheriff,” Opal said. “Miz Resnick just walked her over from the Blue Onion. She’s had a shock.”
“I’ll bet,” the sheriff said, and gave me a hard look. “I can take it from here.”
“I offered her a place to stay if she needs it,” I told Opal.
As I finished speaking, Ethel came through the door, still looking stricken.
“Can I help you?” Opal asked.
“I just wanted to offer this young woman a place to stay,” she said, staring at Brandi. It was almost
as if she were seeing a ghost.
“That’s kind of you,” Opal said. “What do you think, young lady?”
Brandi gave a noncommittal shrug.
Rooster looked at me. “See? All taken care of. Now, why don’t you run along?”
“Brandi said that Krystal’s boyfriend had just broken up with her,” I told him. I glanced at Opal and decided not to mention Dougie Metzger’s crush. “It might be worth looking into. And she said something about Krystal ‘hitting the jackpot’ . . .”
The sheriff narrowed his eyes at me. “I said, I can take it from here.”
“Of course,” I said, trying to contain my irritation. Opal gave me a sympathetic look as I stood up and headed for the door.
By the time I made it back to the Blue Onion, the lunch rush was fading, and Quinn was cutting up potatoes for another pot of soup.
Quinn jumped, almost cutting herself with the knife as I shut the door behind me. Her years with Jed Stadtler had taken their toll on her; she was still easily startled.
“Sorry to scare you,” I said.
“It’s all right. I need to get better about that.” She took a deep breath and pushed a reddish curl out of her eye with her sleeve.
“Can I give you a hand with anything?” I asked.
“Would you mind cooking up some bacon for me?” she asked. “I need a whole package; it’s on the bottom shelf of the fridge.”
“Got it,” I said.
She picked up a knife and continued chopping up a potato. “Thanks. Now tell me what happened.”
“Rooster didn’t want to hear anything I said,” I told her, and relayed what had happened.
“So Dougie could have poisoned the bread,” Quinn said. “Interesting.”
“He’s definitely on the list of people I want to talk to,” I said. “I offered Brandi a place to stay, but Ethel walked in and offered to take her in.”
“That was nice of her. No word on Brittany?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t get a chance to see Molly, either. Opal’s on the Brittany thing, but no leads yet.”
“I hope Brittany’s okay,” she worried. “I’m sure it’s just a romantic fling.”
“I just hope she and Bryce don’t do anything stupid,” I said. “I found out Krystal’s boyfriend was married, by the way. And I visited the jeweler in La Grange; somebody bought a sapphire cross like the one Krystal wore within the last few months, but the saleswoman wouldn’t tell me who.” I’d forgotten to mention that to Opal, I realized; I’d have to tell her next time I saw her.
Fatal Frost (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 2) Page 10
