by Kate Bell
He shrugged his shoulders. “Nope. Not that I can think of.”
I breathed air out through my mouth. Darn him.
Lucy was staring at him. “How about you?”
I nearly gave myself whiplash, my head whipped toward her so fast. I raised my eyebrows at her.
“What about me?” he asked, looking at her, fork poised in the air.
“Did you do it? Did you murder Henry Hoffer?” She narrowed her eyes at him and I wanted to snatch that blonde curly hair right off her head.
“What? What are you talking about?” he asked, staring at her with his fork still midway to his mouth.
“We heard you had an argument with Henry a week ago,” she said leaning toward him.
“Um, what Lucy means is, well is there any chance you might have had an argument with Henry?” I asked. What on earth was she thinking?
He narrowed his eyes at Lucy. “No. No, I did not murder Henry.”
“Oh, that’s good!” I said. “We were so worried someone might blame you.” We were playing good cop, bad cop now.
Then he turned on me. “You were there first. Did you murder him? I heard you arguing with him in his office the night before.”
“Me? What? No!” I exclaimed. “I could never murder anyone! And we weren’t arguing. We were discussing pie.”
“Yeah? Well, if we’re throwing out accusations, then I guess I have a right to throw one of my own out and if that detective comes by here, I just might throw it at him.”
“Don’t you threaten her,” Lucy said. “We know you had money problems and that Henry wouldn’t give you a raise.”
I clamped my hand over her mouth. We didn’t need Charles knowing everything that we knew.
“What she means is, there’s a rumor on the street.” I smiled sweetly.
I gave Lucy the eye, and she squirmed out from behind my hand.
She straightened her hair. “So, where were you on the night of the murder?” she continued, much calmer.
“I was visiting my mom,” he said and licked pie off his thumb.
“Your mom?” I asked.
“At the nursing home,” he said. “And now, if you ladies would please take a hike, I would appreciate it. But leave the rest of the pie.”
I stood up. He had an alibi.
“Oh, and if you’re so hot to catch a killer, maybe you should have taken note that the gardener was there the night before,” he said leaning back in his chair.
“So? What of it?” I asked.
“Henry and he had an argument over the new flowers he was supposed to put in the planters out front. Henry wanted all yellow and Ralph Henderson brought orange and yellow.”
I gasped. He was right. The gardener had been planting flowers the night before. And not only that, some of his tools were still in the planter the next morning. What gardener leaves his tools laying out overnight in a planter? Some hooligan could easily make off with them. It was as if he had taken off in a hurry. Or maybe he had stopped to murder Henry and then left in a hurry before the police showed up. Why hadn’t I thought of this earlier?
“Uh huh. I got smarts too, you know,” he said, tapping his forehead.
“Yes. So I see. Come on, Lucy.”
We made our exit.
When we got into the car, my phone rang. It was my son, Thad.
“Hi honey,” I said when I answered it.
“Mom, Jennifer said you were suspected of murder. Did you kill someone?” he asked, his voice squeaking on the word ‘kill’.
“Way to have faith in your mom, Thad. Of course, I didn’t kill anyone!” I insisted.
“I didn’t think so,” he said with a sigh. “But if you had, I want you to know it wouldn’t change our relationship in the least.”
“That’s comforting,” I said. “When are you coming home for a visit?”
Thad was at the University of Wisconsin at Madison. His visits were getting fewer and fewer, it seemed.
“Mom, school just started a few weeks ago. I just spent the whole summer with you,” he said, sounding annoyed.
“That was a long time ago.”
He chuckled. “I just wanted you to know that if you need someone to take Dixie while you’re in the slammer, it will have to be grandma.”
“You’re so thoughtful. Grandma is allergic,” I said.
“I gotta go, Mom. Let me know how things are going,” he said. “Love you.”
“Love you too-," I was interrupted by dead airspace. He had hung up. I glanced over at Lucy sitting next to me and rolled my eyes.
“He’s such a good boy,” she said with a grin.
“That, he is.”
Chapter Eight
“So what do you think? Was he telling the truth?” Lucy asked, her hands curled around a cup of Joe.
I shrugged. “He seemed sincere. And he was visiting his mother.”
“He was sincere about your pie, is what he was sincere about,” she said, raising the cup to her lips. “We need to visit his mother. How do we know he was really visiting her?”
“Lucy, she’s in a nursing home.”
She shrugged. “We should still talk to her.”
I placed a ball of pie dough on the flour-covered dishtowel and began to roll it out. My grandmama always taught me to lay out a flour-sack dish towel on the counter and sprinkle it with flour before rolling the pie crust. Fortunately, I had a stack of her old flour-sack dishtowels, because those were hard to come by these days.
“I don’t think it matters much. I mean, what mama is going to rat out her son and say he wasn’t there?” I said, turning the dishtowel so I could get at the other side of the piecrust.
“True. But I think we need to investigate,” she said. “What kind of pie are you making today?”
“Sour cream apple. I think I’m going to take it over to Martha Newberry, poor thing.”
“What? I love sour cream apple! Can’t you just take her a piece of it?”
I gave her a look. “You should have seen her. She was just beside herself. I’m sure she’s never seen such an awful thing. I certainly hadn’t.”
“Yeah, how are you holding up after that? No nightmares? Or weird thoughts?” she asked, getting up to pour herself another cup of coffee.
“No nightmares. Although sometimes the image of Henry’s body laying on the floor skates across my mind.” I shuddered. I didn’t want to admit it, but it was happening a lot. I figured it would stop at some point. Surely it would after some more time had passed.
She came over to me and gave me a hug. “I’ve got to get to work. If you need me for anything, let me know.”
“Thanks, Lucy.”
Lucy worked in a flower shop part-time. Her husband was an accountant and did quite well for them, but Lucy enjoyed getting out and being able to talk to people. Sometimes I thought I needed to take a part-time job just to get out of the house, but then I realized I would be at someone else’s beck and call and I liked my freedom.
***
I knocked on Martha Newberry’s door and waited. I heard a dog yipping from inside and I hoped I wasn’t interrupting her afternoon nap. When she didn’t come to the door, I knocked again. I carried the pie in a reusable shopping bag. It was brand new and cute, with singing apple pies all over the front. It advertised Shaw’s Market.
After a bit, I heard footsteps and I could tell she was peeking through the peephole on her door. I smiled real big, and the door swung slowly open.
“Yes?” she said, peering around the door. A little tan Chihuahua peered from behind her and barked at me.
“Good afternoon Martha, how are you? I thought I’d bring you a pie,” I said cheerfully. She looked tired, with dark circles under her eyes. Poor thing.
She brightened when I held up the bag. “A pie? How sweet of you, Allie! Come on in. Now, Tiny, you hush.” She opened the door wider, and I followed her in. Tiny took a few steps back, unsure whether he should allow me to enter.
Martha shuffled along; he
r body bent slightly and led me to her living room. “Have a seat,” she said. She took the pie from me and set it on the pass-through window to her kitchen.
“You have a lovely home,” I said, sitting down on the cabbage rose print sofa. The entire room was done in pink. Pink carpets, drapes, and throw pillows. It felt like 1984 in here. I smiled. My grandmama would have loved it.
Tiny sat across from me and kept an eye on me, but had stopped his barking.
“Thank you, dear,” she said. “Can I get you some tea?”
“No, thank you,” I said. Northerners’ idea of tea was hot, with milk and sugar while mine was cold and sweet. “I wanted to check on you after that terrible fright we had the other day.”
“Oh dear, that really was terrible,” she said sitting across from me on the matching love seat. “My, my, my. I have never seen such a thing. I’ve been having trouble sleeping ever since.” She had a far-off look in her eyes and I knew she was remembering that horrible scene.
“Me either,” I murmured. It truly was horrible. I got up and sat beside her and took her hand and patted it. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
She looked me in the eye. “Who would do such an unimaginable thing? Why I’ve lived here all my life and we’ve had so little violence. Oh, there was that time that Ritter woman killed her husband in a fit of jealous rage, and once a man killed his wife and then killed himself. I can’t remember who that was now. But to just have a random murder like that? I just don’t know what this world is coming to.”
“I know, it’s very shocking. The police are getting help from that detective they borrowed from Bangor though, so I’m sure they’ll figure it out.”
She got lost in her thoughts for a few moments and I looked over at the La-Z-Boy at the end of the living room. There was a pair of men’s slippers next to it and a pipe on the end table. A pair of men’s gold-rimmed reading glasses and a folded up newspaper was also on the table. There was a walker on the other side of the chair. Mr. Newberry had died several years earlier.
Martha caught me looking at the chair. She smiled. “I haven’t had the heart to put his things away,” she said softly. “We went out to dinner that night at Henry’s and George expected to come home afterward and smoke his pipe and read his paper. Just like any other evening.”
My heart broke. I knew exactly how she felt. It was still difficult for me to think about Thaddeus without breaking down and crying. “I understand. I lost my husband a few years ago, too. It’s very difficult. That’s the reason I started my blog. To help others and myself who are going through this. Grief is a terrible thing.”
She looked at me puzzled. “Blog? Is that one of those computer type things?”
“Yes, it’s sort of an online journal,” I explained. Poor Martha. Just like Henry, she hadn’t come into the computer age and probably never would.
“I see,” she said absently. “I have been feeling so tired lately.”
“Oh? I know this whole thing has had me exhausted, too. I shouldn’t keep you,” I said and stood up. “Martha, is there anything else I can get you or do for you? I’d be happy to help.”
“No, dear, I’m fine. But, I suppose, if you wouldn’t mind, perhaps someday you’d come by and we can talk about our husbands? You know, just to keep one another company?”
I had to choke back the lump forming in my throat. “Of course, Martha. I would love to do that.” How had I not thought to check in on her before? I knew her husband had died several years ago and other than attending the funeral, I hadn’t offered her a bit of support. I felt terrible about that. “It must have been hard, working at Henry’s after your husband died there.”
“It was, but Henry was so good to me. I don’t know what I would have done without him,” she said, smiling sweetly.
“It’s good to have friends help you through hard times,” I said.
She carefully got to her feet, and I offered her a steadying hand. “I do appreciate the pie so much. I don’t bake anymore now that it’s just me and Tiny,” she said and shuffled her way with me to the door.
“I’m happy to bring it to you. It doesn’t freeze as well as some of my pies, but it will keep a few days in the refrigerator,” I said. “I bake frequently, so I’ll drop back by and bring you something else and we can have that talk. Oh, let me give you one of my business cards. You can call me whenever you’d like.” I dug through my purse and found one of the business cards I used for my blog and gave it to her, then gave her a quick hug on my way out the door.
I really needed to form some sort of support group for local people. Lots of the elderly were without their spouses and loved ones and it had to be lonely for them. I made a mental note to come up with a plan to help with that.
Chapter Nine
The sun was rising later in the mornings and I decided I needed to allow myself to sleep in thirty minutes later the next day. The running trail was lit, but I wasn’t comfortable running in the dark anymore. You never knew if the crazies were hiding behind the bushes along the trail. I’m talking about the regular town crazies. And now there was also a murderer on the loose.
My feet echoed in the silent early morning air as they hit the paved trail. I was six miles into a ten-mile run. I had hit my sweet spot and wasn’t feeling any pain. I breathed in and out in rhythm with my footsteps. I wondered if I could really go 26.2 miles. Ten was the farthest I had ever run and that last mile and a half was rough. I needed to research how other runners got themselves through the hard parts.
I was listening to Boston on my iPod, leaving one earbud out so I could hear if anyone slipped up behind me. Classic rock was the best for running. The dangling earbud slapped against my side and I noticed a car parked at the corner up ahead. The path crossed several streets and someone was leaning against a dark SUV parked on Church Street. My heart jumped a little, and I debated on turning off the path to avoid whoever it was. The sun was rising, but it wasn’t fully light yet and I didn’t recognize the car. I slowed down, keeping an eye on the person.
I realized it was Detective Blanchard when I had run a few more steps. What was he doing out here this early? He stood up straighter as I got closer to him.
“Hello, Allie,” he called.
“Hey,” I said, breathing hard. I came to a stop in front of him. “Well, did you come out for a run?” I looked him up and down in his suit. He really needed to loosen up.
He cracked a small smile. “I’ll hit the gym later this evening. I wanted to speak to you for a minute.”
I gave him a level gaze. “It was important enough to hang around the running trail in the dark? You couldn’t call me?”
“No, actually I was headed to the station and remembered that you run in the early mornings, so I thought I’d stop and see if you were around. And here you are,” he said motioning toward me.
“Here I am,” I said and forced myself to smile. I waited.
He looked uncomfortable for a moment and then continued. “I heard that you and Henry Hoffer had an argument the night before the murder. Care to tell me about that?”
Charles! He had squealed on me after I made him a pie. Now I was getting angry. I put my hands on my hips. “I told you. I wanted him to try my pie while it was still warm. Apple pie needs to be warm when you eat it.”
“So you argued about it? It’s that important?” he asked. He had somehow whipped out his notebook without me seeing it. He began jotting down notes under the dim streetlights.
“No, it isn’t that important, but I was hoping Henry and I could do some business together. Eating it warm was important in this instance. It would have been important to my new business.” I felt like an idiot. I had argued with someone about eating pie while it was warm. What was I thinking?
“I see,” he said and made another note.
“I don’t think you do see. Charles told you we had an argument, didn’t he?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm. Charles and I were going to have to have another talk.
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br /> “I’m not really at liberty to say,” he said, looking back up at me.
“I cannot believe you are asking me about this, right here on the running path this early in the morning,” I said. I was losing the fight with my temper. “I mean, really? Really? I had no quarrel with Henry and it wasn’t a real argument, anyway. These Northerners, no, you Northerners can be difficult and cantankerous and I was simply making sure he understood that it was important to the taste and texture of the pie. It meant nothing at all.” My Southern accent was coming out thicker than it had in a long time. Pretty soon I would be saying ‘ya’ll’ and ‘hush my mouth.’ My temper did that to me.
He blinked at me. “I’m sorry, Mrs. McSwain, I don’t mean to upset you, but I am investigating a murder. A murder, I might point out, that you discovered. I have to investigate all leads and my current lead is you.” His eyes had narrowed, and I thought he might have a little temper of his own. I bet a lot of police officers did. They dealt with terrible situations and bad people. Why wouldn’t they get upset about the things they saw every day?
I took a deep breath. I needed to calm down before I found myself in handcuffs. “Okay, then. It wasn’t really an argument. I had nothing against Henry. Do you have any other questions?”
He looked at me silently for a few moments. “You really don’t have an alibi, Mrs. McSwain, do you?”
My mouth dropped open. Was that a threat?
“Of course I do. I was at home. Watching television.” Alone. Without an alibi.
He leaned back against his vehicle and studied me.
“Well, are there fingerprints on the knife? Did you even think to look?” I knew I was pushing things. I should have kept my mouth shut, but I was beyond irritated.
He gave me a dry chuckle. “There were no fingerprints. It was either wiped clean, or the killer wore gloves. Why do you ask?”
All right, I had gone too far. I needed to reel this thing in. “Look, Detective Blanchard. I apologize if I sound defensive. It’s just that I’ve never been suspected in a murder before and I’m a little out of sorts. I really don’t know who killed Henry and if I did, I would say so.”
