I first found Socrates, who seemed to be growing calmer, too.
Then I swept the beam around the shed, illuminating dusty, gray nets of gauzy cobwebs dangling from the rafters; some wooden barrels, presumably for cider; and . . .
“Pastor Pete?”
I heard the confusion in my voice, to discover the founder of Lighthouse Fellowship sitting on a crate in a corner, while he had a haunted hayride to coordinate with Tamara.
For a split second, I thought maybe I was in the wrong shed. Or Pastor Kishbaugh had misunderstood and thought he was the hayride’s grand finale.
He certainly looked scary enough.
“Umm . . . Pastor Pete? Are you okay?”
He didn’t answer, and I stepped closer, training the weak beam from the flashlight onto his face.
His eyes were blank, his jaw was slack and his skin was more pale and rubbery looking than any mask I’d seen at a costume shop.
Swallowing hard, I turned to Socrates and whispered, in a voice tight with real horror, “I’m pretty sure he’s . . . dead !”
Chapter 51
The fire that continued to burn in the rusted barrel did little to dispel the gloom as I sat huddled under a blanket, waiting with a mummy, a werewolf, and a bunch of random ghouls while Jonathan, Detective Doebler, coroner Vonda Shakes, and a lot of uniformed officers traipsed in and out of the trees, which were splashed with red and blue lights from squad cars and an ambulance.
“I’ve sent for coffee,” Tamara announced, jolting us all out of a grim, chilly reverie. She was treating the murder investigation like yet another event that needed coordination, stalking around in her bloody lab coat and making calls on her cell phone. “The caterer should be here soon.”
As she paced by me, her eyes trained on her phone’s screen, I looked more closely at her white doctor’s coat.
Might some of that blood be real ?
Then I glanced around at the various grave robbers and zombies who ringed the fire and realized that pretty much all of us were blood spattered.
“You’re the only one who doesn’t look like he committed murder tonight,” I whispered to Socrates, who sat next to me on a hay bale. He’d refused my offer to share the blanket and was staring at the fire, meditating like he did when he needed to center himself again.
I didn’t want to disturb his peace, so I resumed gazing at the flames, too, trying not to recall how Pastor Pete had tumbled stiffly forward when I’d shaken him.
I’d been angry, to think that he’d scammed his parishioners—and me, to some extent—but he hadn’t deserved to be killed....
“Daphne?”
I nearly jumped at the sound of my name, then relaxed when someone placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
Twisting, I looked up to see that Jonathan stood behind me. I was pretty sure, from the serious, official look on his face, what he wanted with me, but I ventured, “Yes? What’s up?”
“Come on,” he said, releasing my shoulder and stepping back. “It’s your turn to answer a few questions.”
Nodding, I rose and followed him to the cider house, which was serving as a makeshift command center. Although Jonathan hadn’t summoned him, Socrates shook off his reverie and hopped awkwardly off the hay bale, joining us.
Jonathan held open a squeaky door, allowing Socrates and me to pass through first. Then he closed the door behind us and gestured for me to take a seat at a rickety table.
“Where’s Detective Doebler?” I asked, looking around the spare pub, which was open only on fall weekends. Although Twisted Branch only sold hard cider and soft, warm pretzels, the place was always packed with folks who gathered around the mismatched, wobbly tables to hear local country bands play acoustic music. There was no electricity in the building, only a brick fire pit, which someone—probably Tamara—had lit for the investigators. I normally enjoyed a visit to the orchard when the leaves started to change, but that night I felt nervous. “Isn’t your partner supposed to be here?”
Jonathan spun a chair around and sat across from me, resting his arms on the back of the seat, while Socrates plunked down at our feet with a heavy sigh, like he knew the discussion might take a while. “It’s late, and we’re trying to move things along,” Jonathan explained. I noticed that he wasn’t in his usual suit, probably because he had to tramp through an orchard full of mushy apples. But he was still dressed for work in a gray sweater, a collared shirt, and a tie. “Doebler’s questioning a mummy right now.”
“Oh.”
I wished that Jonathan’s sandy-haired, middle-aged partner could’ve been there to advocate for me. Detective Doebler wasn’t nearly as intense as Jonathan during an interrogation.
However, to my surprise, Jonathan didn’t immediately press me for details about my discovery of Pastor Pete’s body. His first question was, “Are you okay?”
I was still wrapped in the blanket, and I pulled it more closely around my shoulders, although the fire was warming the room. “Yeah. I’m fine. A little shaken up. And not just because I found Pastor Pete—”
“Another body,” Jonathan interrupted, rubbing the spot on his jaw where he had that scar.
“I can’t help it,” I said, my voice rising slightly. “I keep ending up at the wrong place, at the wrong time—”
“Because you put yourself there, Daphne.”
“Not this time,” I argued. “I just volunteered to help out at a hayride. Then someone chased me through the trees!”
Jonathan had been growing frustrated with me, but he sat back, clearly surprised. “Someone chased you?” Before I could even nod, he asked, “Who?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “I was walking to the shed, where Tamara had told me to wait for the tractor, and I heard footsteps behind me.” I nodded to the basset hound who lay at my feet, watching the discussion with an alert expression on his long face. “Socrates heard them, too. We started running and hid in the shed. That’s when we found Pastor Pete.”
Jonathan glanced at Socrates, then returned his attention to me. “Can you tell me anything else?”
“Tamara was acting strangely,” I said. “She kept pointing her chainsaw at me, and she practically growled when I tried to ask her about the symbol on the jacket.”
“You don’t need to ask anyone about that,” Jonathan said firmly. “I’ve got it covered.”
“Really?” I shrugged off the blanket. The fire was burning higher and the room was warm. Jonathan looked briefly at my clown outfit, but I didn’t see the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. He met my gaze again as I asked, “Can you tell me—?”
“What else can you tell me?” Jonathan inquired, overriding my question. I wondered if he had already figured out what the bird, flame, and pen represented, or if he meant that he’d eventually identify the logo. His phrasing was ambiguous. “Do you recall anything more about finding Pete Kishbaugh?”
“No,” I informed him. “The shed was dark, and as soon as Socrates and I realized he was dead, we ran for help.” I hesitated. “I should tell you that tonight wasn’t the first time I’ve been followed, though. Someone has been sort of trailing me for a while.”
“Who?” Jonathan spoke sharply, but I knew he wasn’t angry. Just curious and worried about me.
“A young woman you might’ve seen at the reading of the will,” I told him. “She was standing opposite you, in a corner.”
“I recall her,” Jonathan said. “She seemed awfully timid. Are you sure she’s followed you?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “But I saw her twice at Pettigrew Park, watching me, when nobody else was around. Including the night of the Howl-o-Ween Parade. After you and Elyse left.”
He was definitely worried on my behalf. He spoke more softly, and I saw concern in his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t know if it was important.”
Jonathan continued to study my face by the flickering light of the fire, then he asked, even more quietly,
“Where’s the painting, Daphne?”
“At Plum Cottage,” I admitted. “I took it there this evening.”
He obviously thought I’d made a mistake. I could tell by the way he rubbed his eyes and groaned. Then he looked up at me again. “You should sleep at Piper’s tonight. Or, better yet, at your mother’s house.”
Talk about scary ideas. “I don’t think so! Not at my mother’s!”
Jonathan rose. I couldn’t believe my interrogation was already over. I still had questions for him. How could he be done with me?
“Please, stay with Piper, then,” he urged, spinning the chair back around. “At least until I can put locks on your windows, too. Or I catch a killer.”
“I’ll consider it,” I said, standing up, too, along with Socrates, as Jonathan moved toward the door without another word.
I would probably never understand how he could dismiss me like that, when we were friends. He was afraid that I was in danger, and he wanted to keep me safe. Yet he didn’t offer to call me every five minutes, like Moxie always did when she was worried about me. Nor did he give me a reassuring hug, like Dylan would have done before leaving.
Then I considered what I knew about Jonathan’s past. I’d never seen anyone die, let alone friends. I might very well close myself off, too. Maybe lecturing me about safety, installing locks for me, and showing hints of concern were all he could do at that point. Maybe he needed to protect himself in a way I couldn’t fully understand, any more than he could grasp why I didn’t fret excessively about locking my doors or changing the bald tires on my VW.
“Jonathan?” I called to him before he could leave.
He turned to me. “Yes?”
“I really will think about staying at Piper’s, okay?”
“Thanks,” he said gruffly, reaching to push open the door.
“Wait!” I said, stopping him again. I hurried across the cider house, with Socrates close on my heels. “Can you at least tell me how Pastor Pete died? He was just sitting there. . . .”
Jonathan paused, like he always did when considering whether to give me any information. Then he said, “There’s a reporter for the Gazette here, so I suppose most of this will be public tomorrow.”
That was the first time I’d ever heard of a journalist actually producing news for the Gazette. And I’d seen that byline, too, on the story about the historical society.
G. Graham.
Was there some new reporter in town? Someone who dug for information?
I wanted to ask Jonathan, but he was answering my other question, so I stayed quiet.
“We found a rusted old pair of pruning shears, tossed aside in the woods, with some blood on them,” he informed me. “You probably didn’t see the wound on Kishbaugh’s back, because his shirt is black.”
“So the weapon probably came from right on the property?” I ventured. “This is an orchard.”
“I don’t think so,” Jonathan said. “The tools here are all clean and locked away. This place may look rustic, but it’s a commercial establishment.”
He must’ve seen the strange expression on my face, as a thought crossed my mind. He’d again moved to push open the door, but he lowered his hand. “What is it? What are you thinking?”
“I was just at a place that was filled with rusted old tools,” I said softly. “I kept looking at them, hanging on the walls, because they seemed like a safety hazard.”
“I think I know where you mean,” Jonathan said, taking a step toward me. “But why don’t you tell me, anyhow. Just in case I’m guessing wrong.”
He’d probably noticed the dangerous-looking tools, himself, and made the same connection that I’d just made, yet I still felt guilty when I admitted, reluctantly, “Bea Baumgartner’s cat shelter.”
Chapter 52
I ultimately chose not to sleep at Piper’s farmhouse the night of Pastor Pete’s murder, but I did lock my door. And I slept fitfully, too, on the love seat, under the imperious gaze of Woman in Red Three.
I’d dozed off while studying the portrait, searching for an answer to Lillian Flynt’s challenge to me. And when I awoke, I found myself face to face with the nameless, scowling lady.
It was almost as if she was disappointed in me for not understanding what Miss Flynt wanted me to do.
Nor could I figure out why the woman in the portrait seemed familiar.
Sitting up and stretching, I saw Socrates dozing by the door instead of the fire, like he’d also been watchful.
I swung my feet off the love seat, moving quietly so as not to disturb him, only to hear a faint yowl.
Looking down, I found Tinkleston sitting in one of my slippers, reminiscent of the first night I’d found him under Miss Flynt’s bed.
I was grateful that Tinkleston’s teeth weren’t sinking into my ankles, but a new, nagging feeling gnawed at me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what bothered me, either, though, so I tried to shake it off.
“Happy Halloween,” I told Tinks, recalling that the spooky holiday had arrived. “This is kind of your day, huh?”
Tinkleston didn’t attack me for greeting him. He merely stared at me glumly, so I dared to bend down and tentatively stroke his back, only to be rewarded with a swipe from his pom-pom paw and a deeper than usual frown on his pushed-in face.
That was okay. At least he wasn’t a constant ball of fury anymore.
Over by the door, Socrates snuffled grumpily in his sleep.
I could live with taciturn animals.
I couldn’t live with so many questions, though, so I got dressed and fed Tinks and a groggy Socrates breakfast. Then I retrieved my VW from its spot next to Piper’s barn and drove to Sylvan Creek to confront a murder suspect in a place that made me want to hyperventilate, just to think about it.
Entering the Sylvan Creek Historical Society through the heavy brass door, I first glanced nervously at the open vault, which still gave me nightmares. Next, I leaned over and stroked Himmelfarb, who’d run to me the moment I’d stepped into the former bank lobby.
“Hey, there,” I greeted her, stroking her back. She blinked up at me and purred gratefully. “I have to admit, it’s nice to see a sweet cat today.”
Then I straightened and marched directly to Asa Whitaker’s office.
As I rapped on the open door with my knuckles, I saw that he was seated at his desk and wearing an antique eyeshade, which made it difficult for me not to laugh when I gave the little speech I’d prepared.
“I could waste a lot of time digging through all the dusty, old files you keep here,” I told him. “Or you could just tell me about the scandal that Benedict Flynt was involved in, in the 1950s. Because I know something happened—and that Miss Flynt made you keep it quiet.”
Asa raised his head, so I could see his eyes under the visor, and I lost the urge to chuckle.
He stared at me for a long time without speaking.
Then he pushed himself upright with his long, bony arms, and said, in a soft tone that somehow didn’t reassure me, “Fine, Miss Templeton. If you insist upon digging up that particular aspect of the past, I have a few things I can show you. In the vault.”
I’d spoken brashly when I’d marched into his office, but my throat tightened and my voice got squeaky. “Umm . . . What sort of things?”
He spoke even more quietly. “Things that will prove Lillian wasn’t the first woman murdered in Flynt Mansion.”
My pulse started to race with excitement and fear, but I kept my voice calm and even. “Is this stuff you can bring out here?” I requested, my gaze darting to the open but dark chamber. “Or maybe we could go to a coffee shop . . . ?”
He was already stepping around the desk, though, and taking my elbow into his hand, which was unexpectedly strong.
“No, Daphne,” he said. “We don’t need to go to a coffee shop. Everything you need to see is in the vault.”
Chapter 53
Maybe if Moxie sat in a room full of turtles, she’d get over her phobia. It
only took me about a half hour of listening to Asa Whitaker ramble on about the entire history of the Flynt family, while I sat on a storage box in the vault, before my heart rate slowed to a snail’s pace and my chin began to repeatedly bump against my chest.
“Daphne, are you listening?” Asa asked. “What are you looking at? The cat?”
My head bobbed back up. “I’m listening,” I promised, petting Himmelfarb, who was sound asleep on my lap. Lucky kitten. “You were talking about the Flynts. And things that happened to them. In the past.”
“I was trying to tell you that Lillian’s father, Benedict Flynt—the last Lutheran minister at the church on Acorn Street—had an affair in the early 1950s with a harlot from Philadelphia. The woman in the painting you inherited.”
Finally, things were getting interesting. Shaking the cobwebs out of my brain, I sat up straighter and leaned forward, being careful not to wake Himmelfarb. “And . . . ?”
“It tore the congregation, and the Flynt family, apart. But Benedict didn’t care. He was obsessed, and he flaunted his lover in front of all of Sylvan Creek. Went so far as to push his wife out of the mansion, so the ‘other woman’ could move in. And to the family’s horror, he had that painting commissioned and”—Asa lowered his voice—“he swore that, if anyone ever removed it from the house, even after his death, the ‘woman in red’ would haunt the place forever!”
That was very dramatic, but I had to point out, “Everyone says the woman haunts the house anyhow. Even though the painting was never removed.”
Until now. By me.
Asa’s eyes had a feverish gleam. “It’s said that she haunts the mansion because, in a fit of rage, Benedict strangled her.”
I rubbed my throat, which felt constricted again as I also got caught up in the story. “Why?”
“He learned that she was unfaithful to him. And he couldn’t bear the thought of sharing her with—or losing her to—another man.”
“Is that true?” I asked. “Miss Flynt really wasn’t the first person murdered at the mansion?”
“It’s never been proven,” Asa admitted, losing some of his fervor. “But about six months after Benedict’s paramour mysteriously disappeared, a decomposed female body washed up on the shore of Lake Wallapawakee. The corpse was impossible to identify back then, before DNA testing, but no one else had gone missing recently. And the family withdrew from society for many years. Lillian was the first Flynt to take a role in the community since the 1950s.”
Dial Meow for Murder Page 20
