by Kate Bell
“Hi,” Lucy said, still clutching the railing. “Oh say, don’t I know you? You worked at the library for a while, didn’t you? And the bank?”
Lucy was an avid reader and user of the public library, but I had no idea Hilda had ever worked there.
Hilda took a step back. “I’ve worked both places. You like John Grisham, don’t you?”
“Wow, you have quite the memory,” Lucy said. “It’s been years since you’ve worked there, hasn’t it?”
“It has,” Hilda agreed. She still had a very somber look on her face and I wasn’t sure she would let us in. Then she suddenly took another step back and held the door open. “Why don’t you come in?”
We followed her into the apartment. “I love what you’ve done with this place,” Lucy said, following me in. “And I’m so sorry about your daughter. What a terrible tragedy.”
“Thank you,” Hilda said. “I still can’t believe it’s true. I suppose I won’t until I actually see her. The viewing is this evening.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. My heart really went out to her, regardless of whether what Mr. Winter’s said was true or not. “I was baking yesterday and I made you a blueberry sour cream pie, Hilda. Would you like me to cut a piece for you?”
She looked at me, surprised, and then her eyes went to the shopping bag I held.
“Well, I suppose a little wouldn’t hurt. I do love blueberries,” she said.
“I’m so glad,” I said and headed to her little kitchenette. “If you don’t mind, I’ll help myself with finding the dishes?”
“Oh, sure,” she said absently. “Have you read Grisham’s latest?” she said to Lucy, motioning toward one of the loveseats.
“I haven’t. The library hasn’t gotten it in yet. But I placed a request for it to come from the Bangor library. Is it good?” Lucy asked enthusiastically.
“I don’t think it’s one of his best,” she said. “But it’s not his worst, either.”
I opened a cupboard and found her dishes. The plates were a plain white Corelle. I took out three dessert plates and three coffee cups. Pie and coffee was the way to anyone’s heart, not to mention thoughts. It was easier for people to open up over good food. A small four-cup coffee maker sat on the corner of the countertop beside a white ceramic canister of coffee. It was the perfect size for such a small kitchen. I quickly got a pot of coffee brewing, and then turned to the pie.
It smelled wonderful. I had made a crumb topping and blueberry juice had bubbled up around the edges during baking. I made a mental note to use blueberries more often. They were a super food and tasted great in just about everything.
Lucy and Hilda discussed books as the coffee brewed. I could have gotten in on the discussion, since I love books too, but Lucy was doing an excellent job of getting Hilda to loosen up.
I found a serving tray and poured three cups of coffee and put them on the tray along with sugar and the cream I found in the refrigerator. Hilda didn’t seem to mind me making myself at home. I put three pieces of pie on the tray and headed to the living room.
“Here we are,” I said, setting the tray on the coffee table and taking a seat next to Lucy.
“Oh, that pie looks lovely,” Hilda said, reaching for a cup of coffee and fixing it to her liking.
“Thank you, I think it’s one of my better pies,” I said, trying to sound humble. Where my pies are concerned, humble is a hard one for me.
“I’ve tried a piece of your cherry pie before,” she said, reaching for a piece of pie.
“Oh? When did you try that?” I asked, stirring my coffee.
“At the Halloween bazaar. I have to say, it was one of the best pieces of cherry pie I’ve ever eaten,” she said.
“Oh, thank you. That’s sweet of you to say,” I said. It always made me feel good when someone complimented my baking, and I didn’t think Hilda was one to give idle compliments.
“Allie is going to sell her pies and desserts at Henry’s Home Cooking Restaurant,” Lucy said, tasting a piece of the pie. “Mmm, Allie this is so good.”
“How wonderful. I guess I know where to go whenever I need something sweet,” Hilda said.
“Thank you, ladies,” I said. “It’s good to hear that someone enjoys my cooking. Hilda, how are you doing? This has got to be so hard on you.”
She sighed heavily and her eyes welled up with tears. “It is. As a mother, you go over all the things you did or didn’t do and the things you wish you could have changed.”
“I can imagine,” I said. It was unthinkable that a child would die before a parent. “I have a blog on grief. I’m no longer updating it, but there are eight years worth of articles on there. You might find it helpful.” I handed her a business card with the web address on it.
She looked at it. “I’m not big on the Internet, but I’ll try and take a look,” she said.
“I know some people aren’t really into the Internet, but I think it’s good to have help getting through this sort of thing. Have you considered counseling?”
She sighed. “You know what would help me get through this?” she asked.
“What would that be?” I asked, feeling like I wouldn’t like the answer.
“It would be to see the murderer in the front house thrown in jail for the rest of his life,” she said pointing at Richard’s house.
“Oh, well, I know they’re working on figuring out who the murderer is,” I stammered.
“I already know who it is,” she said. Anger was creeping into her voice and I wondered if we were going to see the rage Richard had spoken of.
I nodded my head. “I’m sure the police will find the guilty person and—”
“I know who the guilty person is!” she said, cutting me off. Things were going from nice and friendly to not so friendly.
“I think what Allie is trying to say is, the police need to follow certain procedures so they can make the arrest and make it stick,” Lucy interjected.
Hilda took a deep breath. “I suppose that’s necessary. But I do know who did it.”
“What makes you know this?” Lucy asked gently.
“I told her already,” she said nodding toward me. “That worthless husband of Iris’s had an affair on her with a much younger woman. He wanted Iris gone so he could be with her. He didn’t want a messy divorce. No, that would have been too easy. He’s heartless.”
Lucy nodded. “You spoke about regrets. What would you have changed?” she asked. She was trying to change the subject, but it felt like too fast of a switch and I hoped it didn’t backfire on her.
Hilda sat up straight. “I would have been a better mother. I—I would have spent more time with her when she was a child. I loved her. I don’t care what anyone says.”
I nodded. “Raising a child is hard,” I encouraged. “All parents have regrets.”
“I put her into foster care,” she suddenly said. “I did it, it’s true. But I was a different person back then. And my mother got custody, so it’s not like it was a stranger that I had given her over to.” Her voice cracked on the last part. “The truth was, my mother was a terrible mother when I was young and I handed my daughter over to her. But I do have to admit that she was much better with Iris. I guess she had matured by the time Iris came into her life.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. There didn’t seem to be anything else I could say at that point.
“I hated her,” she spat out, looking at me. “There were days I absolutely hated my daughter. I don’t know why.” She took a deep breath. “She was so nice and sweet and spineless and weak and it irritated me. There. There it is. Is that what you came for?” Bitterness laced each word as she spoke it.
I stared at her, wide-eyed. I had no idea what to say to this. I looked at Lucy for help.
“Hilda, no one knows what a person has walked through in their life. They can judge and think they know it all, but the truth is, the rest of us are looking in through a small window into another person’s life. We don’t know. No one
does. But you tried to do better and that’s all you could do,” Lucy said quietly.
Hilda turned to Lucy, and her face softened a little. “I think I need to be alone now.”
Chapter Twelve
“I’m tired. I need more sleep,” I said as Alec put a plate of scrambled eggs in front of me. “But thanks for making breakfast.”
“You need to run more. That will give you more energy,” he replied, sitting across from me.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you serious? I’m running forty miles a week.”
“Ah. Well, I guess it’s something else,” he said. A small smile played on his lips.
“You know, you’re not as serious as I thought you were when we first met,” I said, and took a drink of my coffee.
He chuckled. “I’ve changed? Well, I’d be boring if I were as serious as you first thought.”
“Have you heard anything new about Iris’s murder?” I asked.
“Her neck was broken,” he said, taking a bite of eggs.
“Really? So it could have been an accident? Maybe she slipped on ice,” I said, and then realized that was dumb.
“Well, it could be, except that she didn’t bury herself,” he said with a smirk.
“What if she slipped and fell out there and broke her neck and the snow covered her body?” I asked. I just wanted to cover all the angles.
“Possible, but not probable. It was too cold to be out there on foot and there wasn’t anything beneath her but dirt and snow. It really wasn’t that slippery,” he answered.
“She could have been out there, going for a walk,” I pointed out. “Maybe she spent a lot of time out in the woods, and was used to the cold. Therefore, she wouldn’t need heavier shoes and clothes.”
“But neither her husband nor her mother mentioned it, therefore you’re just being silly.”
“And there wasn’t a car,” I said.
“Right.”
I sighed. “I’m too tired this morning to figure out what happened to her. My brain isn’t working.”
“I’m not going to touch that one,” he wisely said.
“Well,” I began, not looking at him. “I did learn something.”
“Uh oh. What might that be?” he asked suspiciously.
I looked him in the eye. “I’m helping you, whether you like it or not, so you may as well be happy about it.”
He chuckled again. “That’s what I’m afraid of. You’re helping me whether I like it or not.”
I decided to ignore that comment. “It seems Hilda had a drinking problem in her younger years and she is never going to be voted mother of the year.”
“Well, that would apply to many mothers, and fathers as well. But I’m assuming, since she was living in the apartment over Iris’s garage, that they mended their past.”
“That’s what Hilda says. But Mr. Winters said that Hilda said she wished Iris was never born and that she voluntarily gave up custody, only to take it back about five years later,” I said.
“Wait, that’s what Hilda said? You went to talk to Hilda after we talked to her the first time?” he asked, fork poised mid-air.
I had hoped he would miss that part, but he was, after all, an ace detective. “I brought her a pie. Food always makes the hurt easier to bear.”
“Listen, Allie, I appreciate the help. Sometimes. But I really don’t think you should go to a possible suspect’s house and interview them by yourself. I’ve told you this before. You never know when you might push them too far,” he said. He gave me a hard look, and put his fork down on his plate.
“I wasn’t alone. I brought Lucy,” I said and filled my mouth with egg and toast to keep from saying anything else.
He sighed. “I wonder why that doesn’t make me feel better?”
I chewed and swallowed quickly. “Look, I know it’s not the ideal situation, but Richard is right. She does have anger issues—”
“And I know how you have issues with people with anger issues, but it doesn’t mean a thing,” he said, cutting me off.
I sighed. “Will you let me finish? She admitted to making mistakes. Giving up custody was a big one for her and she admits it. And why are you skipping over the fact that she said she wished Iris was never born?”
“So?” he said, shrugging her shoulders. “It doesn’t seem unusual that a parent would regret giving up custody. It wouldn’t surprise me if a desperate parent would admit to wishing they’d never had their child. It would have made things easier if they hadn’t, and Hilda knew she made a mistake and tried to make it right by taking her daughter back.”
“Giving up custody is something most people wouldn’t do in the first place,” I said. “It was weird though. It seemed like she knew why we were there, and she told us anyway. Maybe I’m wrong, but I think there’s something there.”
“Okay, duly noted. I’ll write it down and we’ll see what happens,” he said.
“That’s all I’m asking,” I answered.
“Will it do any good for me to ask you not to talk to people without me?” he asked.
I smiled at him. “Probably not. What is all that?” I asked, pointing to a stack of papers on the table next to him.
“That is my application for a PI license with the great state of Maine.”
“Really? All that?” I asked. It would have taken me weeks to assemble all that he had in the stack.
“Ayup,” he said in his best Maine accent. “Apparently they don’t hand these licenses out to just anyone. I still need to take a test once they approve all this,” he said, pulling the stack toward himself. “There are transcripts from the police academy, my high school diploma, birth certificate, oh, and a release to do a psychiatric check. Just to mention a few.”
“Wow, sounds like fun. I hope you pass inspection. Especially that psychiatric check.”
“We can only hope,” he said. “Can I use your scanner to send it all in?”
“Sure you can,” I said.
“And lets go take another look at the place we found the body, shall we?”
“Really?” I asked. “That sounds like fun.”
“We can get some snow for snow cream.”
“No. Way.”
***
Alec and I walked around the area where we had found Iris. There hadn’t been much new snow and what was there had begun to melt, in spite of the cold temperatures. I had worn rugged boots and a double layer of socks, so at least I was warmer this time.
“What do you think we’re going to find?” I asked him.
“I don’t know. I was just wondering if the melting snow would reveal anything new,” he said squatting down to get a better look at the place Iris had laid. He reached out a gloved hand and dug up some of the icy snow.
“Shouldn’t the police have found all there was to find?” I asked.
“Yes, they should have. But it’s hard to find clues when the ground is frozen and covered in snow,” he said. “Something might have been left behind.”
I walked around the area, searching the ground for anything. The top layer of snow was more of an ice crust caused by melting snow and the temperatures dropping and re-freezing the snow at night. I wondered if the crime had been committed by someone who knew what they were doing and had cleaned up after themselves, or if it was an amateur that had left clues behind. My bet was on this being a crime of passion. Done in anger. If I was right, there would be clues somewhere.
Alec had a small hand-held garden shovel used to transplant plants. He was digging with more intention and I went over to him. “Did you find something?”
“Yeah. A set of keys,” he said, wiggling them free of the ice.
“Huh. Maybe they fell out of Iris’s pocket?”
“Maybe,” he said and continued digging in the area he had found the keys.
“What is that?” I asked, squatting down next to him.
“A ring,” he said, holding it up.
“Iris’s wedding rings,” I said. The ring was yellow
gold with a heart shaped diamond and three tiny diamonds on each side. It had been soldered to a plain gold wedding band.
“Let’s see if there are any other treasures,” he said, continuing to dig.
The wedding ring made me sad. It was such a personal item. “I thought Iris had a wedding ring on her hand when we found her?”
He looked at me. “Are you sure?”
“I think so,” I said, trying to remember her hands.
“That is another mystery to solve then.”
Chapter Thirteen
I wasn’t going to do it, but then I decided I couldn’t not do it. I think funerals should be private affairs with only the closest of loved ones. Death is an intimate thing, something one goes through alone. I’ve always felt the funeral should be an intimate affair as well, with only close loved ones. But they’re not.
My late husband’s funeral was attended by scads of people I didn’t even know. Work colleagues, college friends, old high school buddies and everyone in between. And because funerals are not private, intimate affairs, I decided I could attend Iris’s funeral. After all, she had been my daughter’s second grade teacher and well beloved by said daughter.
So without any further ado, I had put on my funeral dress and black pumps and was headed to the funeral home. I opened my front door and screamed.
“Hey!” Alec exclaimed, wide-eyed.
“Oh!” I said, staring back at him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked with concern in his voice.
“Nothing. You startled me.”
He looked me up and down. “You look very nice. Are you going somewhere?” he asked with one eyebrow cocked.
I gave him a lopsided smile. “You look nice, too. Are you going somewhere?” He was dressed in a casual black suit. One appropriate for small town funerals.
“I asked you first,” he said.
“I’m going to a funeral,” I said and pushed past him, pulling my front door closed behind me.
