by Laura Alden
“Hmm.” She pinched her nose as she considered the question. “Claudia and her sidekick Tina did it together. Each one held—”
“Tina went home that night right after the meeting.”
Marina looked at me. “You are making that up.”
“Nope. And I’m not going to say how I know, so don’t bother asking.” Marina heard the steel in my voice and didn’t push. The only reason I knew anything about Tina was that she and the Helmstetters shared a backyard. The afternoon Rachel cried on my shoulder she’d sobbed that she knew something was wrong when she saw Tina letting the dog out and then Sam didn’t come home. And didn’t come home. And didn’t come home.
“Oh, all right.” Marina crossed off Claudia’s name. “If she’s off, who are we going to put on?”
I tapped the client list. “Remember these?”
She scrunched up her face. “Yah, but that looks like, you know, work. Say, what are you doing this weekend? Got a hot date with that pretty boy?”
I took the pages Rachel had printed out, kept half, and handed the other half to Marina. “We can work separately or we can work together. Which will it be?”
“Slave driver,” she muttered.
Which might be true, but I knew that wasn’t her real problem. She didn’t want to look at these names—almost all of whom were people we knew—and try to link them to a murder. It was a silly game to play around with Claudia and Tina; it would be deeply ugly to seriously consider that someone we knew ended Sam’s life.
“If we do not hang together,” Marina said in dark tones, “we shall surely hang separately.”
“That’s Thomas Paine, not Shakespeare.”
“Whatever.”
“Ready?”
“. . . I guess so.”
We exchanged a long glance full of trepidation and fear.
Then we got to work.
“This I cannot believe.” Paoze, arms crossed, stood at the store’s front windows. His face was a complex mixture of disbelief, surprise, and anxiety. “It should not be.”
“You’re right.” Lois laid a hand on his thin shoulder. “It shouldn’t. I’m in complete agreement. Let’s write a letter to the governor. Heck, we’ll write letters to the entire state legislature and get them to sponsor a bill against this abomination. We’ll start a grassroots movement, spur the entire populace into participating, and get immediate action. If we push hard enough we can get a law passed before Christmas.”
Paoze didn’t rise to her bait. “It should not be,” he said stubbornly, still staring.
I laughed. “Oh, come on. You’ve seen snow before.”
“Not so early.” He was almost pouting. “Never November.”
The three of us stood in a short row and watched the weather. Yesterday, the scene had been of storefronts, bare-branched trees, and a few evergreen shrubs. Today we couldn’t read the sign on the shoe store across the street and the shrubs were swaddled in white. The few vehicles on the road were inching along cautiously, their drivers reacquainting themselves with winter driving skills.
“What you need is a car,” Lois said.
Paoze used a bicycle to commute from Madison, five miles distant. Rain or shine, heat or cold, he was always on time, and was always dressed more professionally than ninety-nine percent of retail clerks in the country with his dark slacks and white shirts. The boy was a minor miracle.
He did need a car, but cars were expensive. The wages the bookstore could afford might stretch to paying for insurance, gas, and repairs, but a car payment? On top of tuition and fees and room and board? Wasn’t going to happen. His parents couldn’t afford to help him much, and the size of his student loans would be crippling when he graduated. Even worse, as an English major, his prospects of high wages were in the realm of zero.
“Mrs. Kennedy? You are okay?” Paoze asked.
I jerked out of my depressive reverie and realized that I must have sighed. “I’m fine.” I looked out at the white swirling world. “But I have to go out in that and I didn’t bring my boots.”
Lois laughed. “Sucker. I tossed a pair in my trunk on Labor Day. Want to borrow them? All you have to do is go out to my car. It’s in the parking lot way down by the grocery store.”
“You are a cruel, cruel woman. To atone for your sins, I suggest you realphabetize the picture books.” Picture books had been Marcia’s favorite section, and her absence was showing. Task for tomorrow: Convince Yvonne that picture books were the love of her life.
By the time I zipped up my coat, pulled on my mittens, and tightened down my hood, Lois was deep into a conversation with Paoze concerning the pleasures of alphabetizing. I shook my head and left her to it. Paoze might or might not have read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, but either way my guess was that he’d be sorting through picture books when I got back.
Outside, I gasped as the wind hit me full in the face. Paoze was right; this shouldn’t be. I put my head down and struggled against the battering gusts. Step after step, snow and more snow insinuated itself between low-slung shoes and socks. I hated wet socks. Why had I believed the weather forecast enough to send the kids out in boots, but not enough to wear them myself?
I walked into the police station and stomped off the snow—twice with each foot, the classic northern tap dance—and asked for Gus.
“Do you have an appointment?” the officer asked. For once I did, and the young man ushered me down the short hall and into Gus’s office. “Do you want me to shut the door, Chief?”
Gus looked at me. I nodded. Without another word, the young man withdrew and the door clicked shut. I pulled off my mittens, untied my hood, and unzipped my coat. “He’s new, isn’t he?” I asked, sitting in the vacant chair.
“Fresh out of the academy. My guess is two years, tops.” The Rynwood Police Department had a tendency to rapid turnover. The city couldn’t afford much of a wage, and after officers gained a year or two of experience, they were off for the bright lights of larger departments with more money, a wider variety of law enforcement opportunities, and room for advancement.
“Well,” I said, opening my purse, “maybe he’ll be the one who stays. Here.” I handed Gus the pink piece of paper.
“What’s this?” He held the paper at arm’s length, squinted, then gave up and patted the piles of papers on his desk until he found his reading glasses. “Does this say Claudia Wolff?”
“Her name is crossed out,” I said quickly. “Don’t pay any attention to that. Marina was joking around.”
Gus made a noncommittal grunt. “Marina. I should have known. Did she put you up to this?”
I assumed the question was rhetorical and didn’t answer.
He read the rest of the names. “Wheeler’s Autos. Stull Systems. Croftman Accounting. Bluegrass Construction.” He let the paper fall to his desk and leaned back. “You said you had something important to tell me.”
I inched forward. “That’s right. Marina and I went through Sam’s client list and those four names are ones who have strong PTA connections. We think—”
Gus put his hands behind his neck and leaned back. “That due to the timing of Sam’s murder, the killer might have a connection to the PTA.”
“Oh. Um . . .” Talk about taking the words out of my mouth. “That’s right. The top salesperson at Wheeler’s Autos is Janis Velona, and her youngest is still at Tarver. Eric Stull owns Stull Systems, and he has two daughters there.” Rosie, Eric’s wife, had hosted a PTA party or two, but I couldn’t remember ever meeting Eric. “Andrew Bieber is—”
“The senior accountant at Croftman Accounting, with two boys and a girl at Tarver,” Gus said. “And Floyd Hirsch, with three girls, is a crew leader at Bluegrass Construction.”
My gaze slid away from Gus’s kind one. Floyd’s wife had been in the PTA for ages, but she’d gone back to college two years ago and I hadn’t seen her since. “I didn’t realize you knew all that.”
“I’m the police chief,” he said. “It’s my job.”
“Oh.” It suddenly seemed very important to play with my snow-soggy mittens. “Um . . .”
“Leave the police work to the police, Beth.” His words were kind, but firm. Kind of like a mom voice, only in this case Mom was a gray-haired male in a blue uniform who carried a gun. “The sheriff’s department is doing all the right things. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but please don’t. Besides the fact that you don’t have any authority, you’re not trained, you don’t have any legal resources, and you don’t have backup.”
I hung my head. Evan had said much the same thing. He was right. They were both right. But how could I just leave this alone? How could I stand by and do nothing?
“Remember what happened last time.” Gus sat forward, putting his elbows on the desk. “Oliver and Jenna were almost killed.”
My mouth went weak at the memory. This time it was only the bookstore that was in danger; it was merely their financial future that was at stake. Maybe it would do them good to live on less; it would build character and make them stronger in the long run. “You’re right,” I whispered.
“That’s my girl.” Gus smiled and got up. “Now, you call Marina and tell her to take up macramé instead of investigating murders.”
I stopped dead, my coat’s zipper halfway through its metallic whoosh. “You can’t be serious.”
He laughed and opened his door. “I’d love to see her face if you did say that.”
I flung my hood over my hair. “Pass. I’d like to live long enough to see my grandchildren.”
Gus’s full-throated laughter followed me down the hall, into the lobby, and out into the cold, where the snow was falling harder and the wind was whipping it around even faster.
“Goodness!” I said, but a chilling gust took the word away and carried it off, where, I did not know. Somewhere south, where it would whisper into the ear of some startled soul.
I amused myself with the thought as I walked back to the store, snow muffling all noise that the wind wasn’t drowning out. Who would hear my startled syllables? A minister, maybe, who would search for a parishioner about to take the Lord’s name in vain.
A car drove past, its engine noise nearly inaudible, its windows coated with white.
Or the person who heard my word might be a farmer out tending his cows. He’d jerk upright at the sound of a woman’s voice, startling Bessy, which would cause her to kick out in alarm. Her hoof would catch the farmer on the seat of his pants and he’d be limping for a week thanks to a snowstorm in Wisconsin.
Head down, I started across the street.
Or it might be a woman in Georgia, walking down the street after completing an errand for her children’s bookstore. She’d just picked up a box of doughnuts for her staff, when my word surprised her. She’d almost drop the box, but a handsome stranger would save it from plunging to the sidewalk. She’d invite him in, and a year from now—
Something made me look up. Perhaps an angel tapped me on the shoulder. Perhaps it was pure chance. Whatever the reason, I did look up and saw a vehicle headed straight toward me.
For the merest fraction of a second, I couldn’t—wouldn’t—didn’t—move.
He hadn’t seen me yet, that’s all. He was probably starting to swerve already, and if I moved I might move into his way and wouldn’t that be a stupid way to die; Marina would never tire of teasing me about that one.
Then primal instincts shrieked at me: “Run! Run!”
Adrenaline activated my muscles and I was running. Or at least trying to run. The snow, wet and slippery, provided no traction and my street shoes couldn’t find a grip. My feet wanted to move, but it was like one of those nightmares where you kept running and running and not going anywhere.
These shoes were going to kill me and it was going to be my own stupid fault.
Mad at myself, mad at the weather, mad at the world, I kicked off my shoes and ran stocking-footed through the snow, my toes gripping the thick white slop better than any boot would ever have done. Three lunging, running steps and I was up onto the curb. Two more and I was up and over the shrubbery. One more and I was safe against the wall of the antique mall.
Panting, I watched the back end of a white van fishtail down the street and out of sight.
Panting, I wondered what had just happened.
Panting, I tried not to think about what had almost happened.
Alan barreled out the door. “Beth? Are you okay? That guy headed straight for you!”
“Don’t be silly.” I tried to laugh, but it came out more like a cough. “He just couldn’t see in the snow.”
Alan shook his head vigorously. “I saw the whole thing. He was going slow, but when you started across the street, he speeded up. Gunned the engine, spun the tires, and aimed right at you.”
“Don’t be silly,” I repeated, but even I could hear the doubt in my voice.
“You should go talk to Gus about it,” Alan said.
“Mmm.” He was right; I should. But what could Gus do? The license plate had been snow-covered. The van was white, and if any business name had been painted on the sides, it had been covered by sticky slush. If I went back to Gus now, all I’d get was another scolding.
No, thanks.
“The sooner the better,” Alan said. “They say the first twenty-four hours are the most important for solving a crime.”
But in this case it would be impossible to prove a crime had been committed. Even if we figured out who had been driving the white van, how could you disprove a statement of, “But, Officer, it was snowing so hard I couldn’t see a thing. Sure, I gunned the engine a little. I was breaking through a snowdrift, that’s all. I sure wasn’t trying to hit anyone.”
Alan looked at me, concern in his frown. “Do you want me to go with you? I was a witness.”
Such a sweet man. “No, thank you,” I said. “But I’ll be sure to talk to Gus right away.” Or Sunday at church. Whichever came first.
Chapter 15
“Who’s that?” Yvonne asked.
“Who’s what?” It was the next day, and I still hadn’t told Gus about the Incident of the White Van. I hadn’t told anyone, actually. Not even Marina. The more I thought about it the sillier it seemed. Alan was an excellent judge of antiques, but I wasn’t so sure his eyes and ears, which were well past the enrollment age for AARP, were to be relied upon.
And why on earth would anyone want to run me over? The whole thing had obviously been an accident, and I wasn’t about to make a fool of myself in front of Gus a second time.
“Outside,” Yvonne said. “Right there in front of the store.”
I looked through the window and saw a small circle of women huddled together. The huddling made sense, because while most of yesterday’s snow had already melted, it was still cold and still windy. I started to turn away, but Yvonne’s face stopped me. Her lips were tucked tight together and she was dusting the books in the front window display over and over and over again.
Hmm.
I moved closer to the window.
Oh, dear. This couldn’t be good. There was no way this was good.
The red hat and black coat was Claudia, and the multicolored hat and pink coat was her sidekick Tina Heller. Either the other three women had bought new hats and coats or I didn’t know them well enough for clothes recognition.
Tina turned her head away from the cluster and darted a look my way. The sheer venom in her glare was nearly tangible, fierce and ugly and raw.
I took an involuntary step backward. What had I ever done to deserve such a look? Okay, Tina wasn’t my favorite person on the planet, but I couldn’t recall doing any of the classic three things that would land me permanently on a woman’s hit list: flirting with her husband, making fun of her new hairstyle, or telling her that she’d gained weight.
As Yvonne and I watched, another woman scurried down the sidewalk to join the others, her arms laden with an awkward arrangement of sticks and cardboard.
Lois, who could smel
l trouble even faster than she could come up with a story for Paoze, came up front. “What’s going on?” She peered out the window. “Is that CeeCee Daniels? What’s she got there? Wait a minute. Those are—”
“Signs,” I said tonelessly. As my former friend CeeCee distributed the handmade signs around the group, I saw enough text to understand what was going on.
“They’re picketing us?” Lois’s voice rose almost to a shriek. “They can’t do that! This is a public street. A public sidewalk! They can’t do this, can they?” She turned to me, frowning, scared, angry. “Can they?”
Lois was looking at me, Yvonne was looking at me. I had a ferocious wish to be an employee again, and not the owner to whom the hard questions ultimately came.
I turned back to watch the goings-on. The snow piles tossed up by the city’s plows were serving as a lumpy reminder of the coming winter, and into those snowbanks Claudia and her crew stuck handmade sign after handmade sign.
“Convicted Killer Inside.”
“Make Rynwood Safe.”
“Bookstore Harbors Convict.”
“Can Your Children Be Safe There?”
Yvonne unpinned her name tag and held it out. “I’ll leave by the back door,” she said. “Then you can go out and tell them I’m gone. If you’re lucky”—she gave a tiny smile—“they’ll all come inside and start buying books.”
I stared at her. “What?”
She shook the name tag and the loose point of the pin flapped around dangerously. “I’m quitting.”
“No, you’re not,” Lois and I said.
Yvonne continued to hold out her tag and I continued to refuse to take it. “There’s no quitting in bookstores,” I said. Except for Marcia, but that hardly counted since I would have fired her anyway. “And no quitting right before the busiest season of the year.”
“If this is the busy time,” Yvonne said, looking around at the empty store, “I don’t want to know what the slow season is like.”
“This is an anomaly,” I said firmly. “Claudia and her cohorts will get tired of standing out there in half an hour. They’ll slink back to wherever they came from, and one by one they’ll come back and shop. There isn’t another children’s bookstore this size within a forty-five-minute drive.”
