That description brought back fond memories of my grandmother, my mom, and my aunts cooking in Atlanta. Greek dishes were standard and rarely varied, but good old Southern soups could be all over the board.
I looked at Gemma. “Your mother thinks you may have gotten the autopsy report. Have you? Was it helpful?”
“You do realize your name is fitting, right? Leta Nosy Parker?”
I chuckled. No one had called me that before, but I had to admit she was probably right. “Hey, it’s Leta Petkas Parker to you. But if the shoe fits . . .”
“Well, you saw the obvious things—the battered nose, the apple in the mouth, and his scarf ‘round his neck. It turns out he was strangled with the scarf. Odd thing about that. Apparently, the scarf was pulled tight enough to strangle him and then loosened. Who does something like that?
“The bloody nose was fresh, and we know the mark on his cheek was from Trixie slapping him earlier on Saturday. His torso was bruised too, consistent with someone walloping him a day earlier, and he had plenty of older injuries—broken rib, for one. Not hard to believe someone would rough him up given what we know about him. What is it you say in the States? He was cruising for a bruising?”
She was right. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him getting in a fight. “But I bet the bruises didn’t have anything to do with his death. And neither did the bloody nose, right?”
It was Libby who piped up. “Maybe not, but it could mean he’d angered someone enough to go after him.”
“Exactly, Mum. We know he’d infuriated both Trixie and Sparkle, but I doubt either one beat him up. So who did? Could be someone came back to finish the job with the scarf, since neither girl happened to own up to strangling him. Heck, even Jill has a motive.”
“Gemma,” Libby exclaimed, “Surely you don’t consider Jill a suspect?”
“Not a serious suspect, Mum, but I can’t officially rule her out yet.”
I asked, “Is this the way it always is? The more you find out, the larger the suspect pool gets?”
“Ah, the amateur sleuth begins to see the light,” she wisecracked. “Same as last time, right?”
It was time to butter up my police resource. “Sure is. You had more suspects than you knew what to do with, but you narrowed down the list by getting alibis, and I ferreted out a few myself.”
“Yes, you did, though you got a bit off track in the end, didn’t you?”
That comment irritated me, but I managed to let it go. “Oh, let’s not dwell on that. Back to this case. Was that it for the autopsy?”
“That was plenty, but we also got his bloodwork back. We knew he was inebriated based on what our witnesses told us, and the analysis bore that out, but he also had oxycodone in his bloodstream. That’s not a good combination with alcohol, and he had enough in his bloodstream to incapacitate him. That would make it easy for someone to pull that scarf tight and not get much, if any, resistance from the victim. Probably took it to ease the pain from the battering he got Friday night.”
“Isn't that a prescription drug? I wonder where he got it.”
“Ha! The likes of him? Might have had a prescription, since his record indicates he was frequently in brawls. Still, with the proper connections, it’s easy enough to come by. “
“That’s what it seems like on all the TV shows I watch. Drugs everywhere. Jill mentioned you’d done a background check on him and discovered he had a record but no convictions.”
“Yes, he was everything I thought he’d be, so there could be plenty of folks wanting to beat him up, but kill him? And most of his nasty behavior took place in Totnes, so why travel here to get at him? More digging to do. That’s why I’m visiting the caravan today. I sent Constable James to check it out Sunday, but he’d barely gotten there before he was called to a break-in. All he had time to do was to padlock the door.”
She took another bite of chicken salad and seemed to make a quick decision. “Want to meet me there? Like I said Sunday morning, there’s no denying you’re observant.”
Wow. I didn’t even have to ask. I could never predict how Gemma would treat me. She went from one extreme to another with little in between—she’d either seek me out and value my input or talk to me as though I were a flaming idiot. At the moment, I seemed to be in her good graces, except for her constant jibes. “Sure, glad to help, but I walked here with Dickens and Christie, so I’ll have to get them home first.”
Libby offered to save us some time by watching over my four-legged companions, and I suggested we take Dickens with us. Gemma gave me a look, but I knew she’d grown fond of Dickens during the last case. She threw up her hands and off we went.
Chapter Seven
I’d never visited a caravan park, or RV resort as we call them back home, but I knew folks who spent months traveling in their campers. Henry had made noises about doing that when we retired, but I was more of a rent-a-villa-in-France kind of gal. The only upside I could see to a camper was being able to take Dickens and Christie along.
The grounds at this site were well-kept, as you’d expect in the Cotswolds. The manager escorted us to Max’s caravan and left us to it. From the outside, it looked to be in good shape, but the inside was a different story.
It had that unwashed smell you find in dorms or fraternity rooms. “That odor must be the same the world over. It reminds me of the house my college boyfriend shared with four guys. If they washed their linens quarterly, it was a miracle, and the ring in the tub seemed permanent.”
Gemma grimaced. “That smell combined with the takeaway containers on the counter and overflowing the garbage bin—disgusting. And I’m sure I’d be labeled sexist if I called this a male thing.”
“You know you would, but I bet most women would agree. Maybe we should poll mothers to see what they’d say about the housekeeping habits of their sons.”
Never one to miss an opportunity to eat, Dickens stuck his nose in a container, but I snatched it away before he could lick it. “What a waste,” barked my boy. “You can tell he didn’t have a dog to help with the scraps.”
I cringed. “Dickens, don’t even think about eating this food. No telling how long it’s been here and what’s crawling in it. This whole place is a health hazard.”
Gemma, oblivious to my conversation with Dickens, handed me a pair of gloves. “Let’s see what we find. Not likely to be anything obvious like a threatening note or an appointment book leading us to the killer, but maybe something’s buried in this mess. I’ll start in the back.”
That left me the tiny kitchen area and couch. I went through the cabinets first. Most of the melamine plates and cups were in the sink or on the counter, so I made short work of that search. Two of the three small drawers contained only a jumble of utensils.
The third was a catchall for scraps of paper and takeaway menus. I found several check-cashing receipts from the Money Shop in Totnes and a late notice from the caravan park there. It appeared he was a month to month customer.
A paper clip held several scraps together. The best I could tell, they were scrawls about magic tricks. I wouldn’t have thought of him as sentimental, but he’d held on to a coffee-stained birthday card from Trixie. And there was a wedding photo of the two tucked inside.
The fridge held only beer, and the freezer a half-empty bottle of Jagermeister. I remembered shots of the liqueur being all the rage among twenty-somethings years ago, but I’d never tried it. We Greeks stuck to ouzo if we wanted a licorice-flavored drink.
Beyond the takeaway containers on the counter, the only other item was a pottery sugar jar. It was an afterthought to pull the lid off, but it was a good thing I did. Stuck inside was a wad of £50 notes—twenty of them. Late on payments to his Totnes caravan park, but flush with cash?
I saved the most disgusting parts of the kitchen for last—the sink and the garbage. It was hard to tell the difference between the two. “Honestly, who lives like this?” I muttered.
Crumpled in the corner of the sink was the
note from Trixie asking Max to meet her at the Fête to discuss the divorce papers. The tone was polite but firm.
“How’s it going back there?” I hollered.
“It’s disgusting and not very fruitful,” she replied. “Unless you’re looking to corner the market on condoms and porn.”
Yuck. My opinion of Max was already pretty low, and it wasn’t improving.
The couch was covered in dirty clothes. I shook out shirts and searched pants pockets but came up empty except for wadded up napkins and a lighter. There was no lingering smell of cigarettes, so I wondered what the lighter was for.
It wasn’t until I’d moved the clothes around that I could see shallow drawers beneath the couch. Surprisingly neat, the first drawer held magic paraphernalia—a black cape, a wand, a silk blindfold, flyers for Max the Magnificent, several sealed packs of playing cards, and a red fringed scarf.
Dickens snuffled in the cape. “There's something here, Leta. Smells funny.”
I reached in and pulled out a baggie of pot from beneath the cape. That explained the lighter. And there was a bottle of pills. Those I couldn’t identify, but I wondered if they were oxycodone. The second drawer held neatly folded black satin sheets. Now that was a surprise. Apparently, he did know how to do laundry, despite all evidence to the contrary.
I felt the bottom of the drawers like the detectives do on TV, but there was no tell-tale clue pointing to the villain. Shoving clothes to the side, I laid out my finds on the couch and snapped photos. Christie would be eager to study those.
“Paydirt!” yelled Gemma. She came toward me holding a little red book and a laptop in her gloved hands.
Max didn’t strike me as a guy who’d have a laptop.
Gemma was pleased with her find. “This could explain why there wasn’t much on his phone. Maybe he did most things on this computer. If so, it could help us identify his friends and associates, but we won’t know until we can analyze what’s on this thing. And we need to check out what’s in this little book. What did you find up here?”
I pointed to the arrangement on the couch. “A few interesting things. Pot and pills plus a wad of cash, yet he’s behind on his bills.”
Gemma studied the collection. “I wonder whether the drugs are for personal use or whether he’s a small-time dealer. That’s a fair number of pills, and the cash could point to dealing, but not in a big way. Remember I said his phone had texts about money and what appeared to be appointment times? At first glance, that’s all I can see in this red book, except these notes have initials too. Maybe they’re all clients, and not for his magic act.”
Looking at the cash brought another question to mind. “What about this caravan and his truck? Does he owe much on them?” I asked.
“He owes more than they’re worth, so we can strike money as a motive for Trixie. Based on what Constable James has uncovered, this cash is about all Max had to his name. This note from Trixie confirms what she said about wanting him to sign the divorce papers. The clock was ticking. That alone doesn’t seem much of a motive for murder, but it’s the only one we’ve uncovered so far.”
Gemma looked around the living area. “And satin sheets? Not a clean spot in this lousy place. Bedding that should be burned, but carefully folded clean satin sheets? Go figure.”
I had to agree the caravan was disgusting. “A filthy garbage-strewn living space, but two clean, organized drawers. I wonder how long it’s been since he’s had the opportunity to use his satin sheets.”
“We need to know a lot more about him. I can ask the Totnes police to help, but they’re as short on manpower as we are.”
It was time to tell Gemma my Totnes plans. “I may be able to help with that. Belle, Wendy, and I are taking a trip to Dartmouth and Totnes this week. We thought we’d do a bit of shopping, eat fresh seafood, ride the ferry and the train, visit Greenway, and poke around and see what we can learn in Totnes.”
That got an eye roll and a snort of laughter or anger. I wasn’t sure which. “Here we go again. You expect me to believe you suddenly have an urge for seafood? And that nosing around Totnes is an afterthought? Why don’t you have business cards printed—Miss Marple and Company?
“Do you really think those people on the coast will tell you three anything? Why would they? And more to the point, what makes you think I want your help?”
My mantra when dealing with Gemma was ‘you catch more flies with honey,’ but her snippy reactions made it difficult to listen to my internal voice. “Gemma, I realize the police are much better equipped to conduct a murder investigation, but you just said you’re undermanned.
“And, as Belle likes to say, you’d be amazed at what folks will tell a sweet little old lady, especially one with a cane. She’s our secret weapon.”
“Bloody hell. I should know after last time, there’s no stopping you. Just do me a favor and don’t let the local constabulary know what you’re up to, okay?”
I smiled sweetly. “No problem. We’ll stay away from them, and if we unearth anything that might be helpful, we’ll let you know.”
That got me a huge eye roll, but no snide comment, so I was making progress. I waited by the car as Gemma fastened the padlock.
Dickens had been unusually quiet but chose this moment to pipe up. “Leta, has Gemma mentioned what they found in the wallet?”
Now, why hadn’t I remembered one of the evidence bags had held a wallet? Dickens was no more a professional detective than I was, but he’d come up with a good question. When we climbed into the car, I asked Gemma.
“The SOCOs looked through it, but there wasn’t much there. No credit cards, which isn’t surprising. A bit of cash and a few fast food receipts. He did have one of those black and white picture strips from a photo booth—pics of him and Trixie. You know, those pictures and the wedding photo you found are the only truly personal things we’ve located. Could be he really did love the girl.
“We didn’t turn up much in his truck either. The keys were on the floorboard, and the glovebox was crammed full of junk—gloves, paper napkins, chapstick, and the like. The metal storage container in the back held the stuff for his magic act, like stuffed animals, silk flowers, cards, his fold-up table, and tablecloth. Guess he sometimes set up a booth.”
Almost as an afterthought, Gemma added, “But we did find one interesting thing—someone had written a message on the driver’s side front fender.”
“A message? What?”
“Pig. Actually, it was the word and a cute drawing of a pig. That’s usually a reference to me and my lot, but in this case, I think it was intended differently. I can think of any number of people who might call Max a pig.”
“Good grief. How on earth do you make sense of it? I mean is there some way to figure out who wrote it? Not like handwriting analysis, is it?” I said.
“You’re right. The best I can do is consider who might have reason to use that insult. I’m sure it was a reference to his behavior, but anyone who’s seen his caravan would also call him a pig. Like I said, there could be a long list.”
I considered what I’d seen and heard so far. “Hell’s bells. More clues, more suspects, and yet no nearer to the answer. I wonder if there’s anything revealing on this laptop. If it’s not password protected, maybe I can fire it up while you drive, see what’s there.”
Dickens barked and peered over my shoulder, something he never got to do in my London taxi because he was always strapped in. “Great idea. I want to see.”
Gemma glanced at me and laughed. “What’s got him so excited all of a sudden? Go ahead and check it out.”
We were in luck. Max didn’t use a password, and when I hit enter, the screen displayed another wedding photo, this one of Trixie alone. I tilted it toward Gemma.
“Too lazy to change it or carrying a torch?” she asked.
“Let me open his pictures folder,” I said. “Wow, this tells quite a story. Not just wedding shots. They’re all of him and Trixie and plenty of Trixie alone.
Several from Christmas and a few winter shots. It makes sense there aren’t any recent one because she filed for divorce about six months ago. And, just think, he took the time to load them from his phone to his laptop.
“Gemma, I think you’re right about him being stuck on Trixie. Her photos are the only personal ones here. It’ll be interesting to see whether his emails tell you anything more.”
She sighed. “I’ll put Constable James on that as soon as I get back to the station. That is, if he’s not tied up with our usual assortment of crimes like petty theft and vandalism. Not enough hands to go around for something this serious, but we’ve got to figure it out soon.”
Libby must have heard us pull up because she came outside with Christie in the backpack. “She and Paddington had a big time, and it wasn’t long before she curled up in her pack for a snooze. I think she’s ready to go home.”
Even Gemma chuckled at that. Dickens and I hopped out. Before Gemma pulled off, I leaned in the window. “Gemma, you’re willing to share and share alike on this case, kind of like we did last time, right? Other than my inadvertent foray to one of the crime scenes, I think I turned up useful information . . . don’t you?”
She sighed and gave me a sidelong glance. “What I want to say is ‘hell no,’ but that’d be cutting off my nose to spite my face. If you think your trio of little old ladies can turn up something useful in Totnes, go for it. And in return, I’ll let you know what, if anything, we find on the computer and in that little red book.”
Now I was ready to choke her. “Little old ladies?” I spluttered. “You’re calling me and Wendy old?!”
She smirked and didn’t reply. I ground my teeth and repeated my honey mantra. Now was not the time to rile her, given she’d agreed to pass me information.
“But seriously, I wish you well,” she said sweetly. Part of her infuriating pattern was to follow a snide comment with sugar.
Pumpkins, Paws and Murder (A Dickens & Christie mystery Book 2) Page 10
