by Jane Tesh
I went back to my office and called her. I asked if she’d mind answering a few questions about the Darkrose Coven. Her reply was quick and sharp.
“We have already been through this, Madeline, the day you stopped by Amanda’s, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Amanda and Joanie told me you were a member.”
“That has nothing to do with anything.”
“A young man is dead, covered with witchcraft symbols. You don’t think there’s a connection?”
“No, I don’t. I think you’re trying to cause trouble. I think you’re trying to make something out of nothing. I think you’re trying to drum up business for your poky little detective agency. Stop harassing me, or I’ll call Chief Brenner and register a formal complaint.”
She ended the call. If nothing was wrong, why wouldn’t Constance talk to me? Was she hoping I wouldn’t be able to clear Amanda and her arch nemesis would be put away and out of her life forever? The last thing I wanted was the chief shutting me down, and I had no doubt Constance could follow through on her threat.
Then Lavinia Lawrence called to see if there was any progress.
I hated to let her down. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything to tell you. I’m still working on it.”
“I wanted you to know I appreciate all your hard work. I have a couple of things to tell you that might make a difference. In going through Harold’s papers, I have found out he was much wealthier than I believed.” She named a sum that made me gasp. “He left a nice amount for me, but a lot of it goes to these organizations I’ve never heard of like Pandas, Incorporated, and the Rustling Waters Fish and Bird Sanctuary.”
“You weren’t aware of Harold’s charities?”
“Not that I know of, but I told you, we weren’t that close. Here are a couple more: Peregrine Falcon Rescue and Rehabilitation and the Parkland Cat Shelter. Looks like each one gets a substantial amount of money. Now, I’m not a detective like you, but I’ve watched my share of detective TV shows, and I’m inclined to believe that if someone knew about this money and wanted it, that’s a good motive for murder.”
“Yes, it is,” I said, “but if Harold’s will stipulates that the money goes to these organizations, the murderer wouldn’t get it.”
“Well, what if it made them so mad, they decided to kill him? What if they wanted the money for something else, and they argued and insisted he change his will, and he wouldn’t?”
Lavinia had watched plenty of TV. “I’ll check on it, Lavinia.”
I still had the cards Harold had given to me. I looked up each company on line, and each one had an attractive website with color photographs and grateful testimonies. I checked the “Contact Us” drop down menus and found phone numbers. All of the people I talked to said the same thing. Harold Stover was one of their most faithful contributors. The man who answered at the Parkland Cat Shelter was happy to tell me the days and times the shelter was open, how many cats were currently available for adoption, and how any donation of money or food was greatly appreciated.
“Is one of your donors Harold Stover?” I asked.
“Let me check.” I heard the click of computer keys. “Yes, Mr. Stover is one of our regular donors. Did I read somewhere he is recently deceased?”
“Yes.”
“Very sad news. He really supported the shelter.”
In case my information was wrong, or something in Harold’s will hit a snag, I decided it was Lavinia’s or her lawyer’s job to tell the man that his shelter was on Harold’s list for a substantial donation. Then I recalled that Harold had said he helped Roger Price out of some financial difficulties. Even though Amanda was beyond cranky, I owed it to Harold to solve his murder. A visit to Amanda’s ex-husband Roger was in order.
Chapter Seventeen
Roger Price had an office in one of the newer business complexes outside Parkland. His secretary informed me that Mr. Price was extremely busy.
I knew how to get his attention. “Please tell him it’s about Harold Stover’s murder.”
She looked taken aback. She relayed the information, and in a few minutes, I was sitting in Roger’s office, and Roger was all concern. He wasn’t what I expected, but I should have known from the way Amanda talked about him that his wealth was the attractive part. I pictured a tall distinguished businessman in expensive clothes. Roger was of average height and build and not remarkable in any way. He wore an expensive suit, a large gold watch, and a diamond ring. He stood up to shake my hand, indicated the chair in front of his desk, then settled back in his leather swivel chair and peered at me over round gold-rimmed glasses.
“Ms. Maclin, I’m very glad you’re investigating this terrible tragedy. What can you tell me?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of information.”
“It’s fairly obvious Amanda killed him, isn’t it? Didn’t I read in the paper that she was found at the scene of the crime?”
“I think she was set up.”
He looked surprised. “By whom?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” I said. “You and Harold were friends, right?”
“Not what you’d call close friends, but we did a little business together. He was a fine man.”
“I understand he helped you out financially after your divorce.”
“Did he say that? No, I didn’t need anyone’s help. Amanda might have thought she got all my money, but far from it. I had assets she never knew about, I’m glad to say.”
Okay, so either Harold lied about helping Roger, or Roger was too proud to admit he needed help.
“Did Harold have any other enemies in Celosia besides Amanda?” Roger asked. “They were always at odds, even when I lived there.”
“One theory is someone killed Harold to get to Amanda.”
“That’s nonsense. Why not just kill her?” He paused and took a breath. “That did not come out right. You’ll have to excuse me. If you only knew what I went through with Amanda. Thank God my wife took me back.”
“Then you won’t mind if I ask you where you were Friday night?”
“Not at all. I was here in my office. You can check with my secretary. We had a contract to finish, and she didn’t mind staying a little later to help me get it done.”
“Mr. Price, you don’t strike me as someone who lets other people push them around. Why did you do what Amanda said?”
He took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. “Have you ever been in love? I mean, madly in love?”
“Yes, with my husband.”
He replaced his glasses. “Then you know sometimes you do foolish things. Sometimes you forgive a lot. Sometimes you think, oh, if I hang on a little longer, things will get better. Well, I was wrong.” His phone rang. “Excuse me, it’s my wife.”
He answered. “Hello, dear. I’m sitting here talking with Ms. Maclin about the case. Yes, I’ll tell her you said hello.” He listened, his pleasant expression giving way. His lips thinned, and he made an effort to control the frustration in his voice. “You’re sure she doesn’t want to go? I thought we had come to an agreement—yes, I realize it’s going to take time, but—all right. That’s fine. We’ll try something else. See you soon. Love you.” He hung up. “I had made plans to take my daughter to a concert this weekend. Her favorite boy band. She’s decided she doesn’t want to go.”
Although he tried to look as if her refusal didn’t matter, I could tell he was hurt. “I’m sorry. It must be tough.”
He shrugged. “She’s thirteen. She’s still upset. We’ll work it out. Was there anything else?”
“No, thank you.”
He got up to escort me to the door. Up until now, I decided he wasn’t a prime suspect, after all. He was angry with Amanda, of course, but so was everyone she came in contact with, and he didn’t have anything against Harold.
Then I saw that Roger Price walked with a stick. Not a flimsy little walking stick, or a dinky cane, but a large beautifully carved piece of heavy dark wood with a polished handle.
“That’s a nice walking stick,” I said.
“Thank you.” He held it at an angle so I could see the silver tip on the end. “I found this in a store up near the mountains. It’s one of a kind. I broke my leg skiing several years ago, and every now and then, it acts up. Might as well look good when you’re limping.” He opened the door and spoke to his secretary. “Ms. Maclin would like to ask you a few questions.”
The secretary confirmed that she and Roger had worked late Friday night. I went back to my car and sat down, my thoughts racing. Not only did Roger possess a potential murder weapon, he also wore little round gold glasses, exactly like Nathan’s. In the dark, the neighbor who saw Nathan might have actually seen Roger.
***
Since I was in Parkland, I used this opportunity to stop by the Delta Gamma house on the campus of UNC-Parkland. It was one of the larger sorority houses, a brick Colonial with the Greek letters carved above the door. In college, Mother insisted I pledge her sorority, but I’d been too busy with classes and my artwork and somehow never got around to doing that. She was disappointed, but by then, I was so used to disappointing her, it didn’t bother me.
The young woman who greeted me at the door was slim and dark, her eyes serious behind bright red glasses. “Welcome to Delta Gamma House. How can I help you?”
I explained that I was working on a case for a former member of the sorority and was looking for information about the class the year Kathleen Wallace and Olivia Decker had been at the college.
She invited me into the parlor and indicated the bookshelves all along the back wall. “We’ve got yearbooks and scrapbooks you can look through. We’ve also got a few of our sisters’ keepsake boxes.”
The keepsake boxes were shiny pink and blue boxes with bronze trim. They looked like fat bound copies of the Classics. “What exactly are those?”
“We give one to every girl when she pledges. It’s like a special personal scrapbook. They’re supposed to take the boxes with them when they graduate, but, as you can see, a few have been left behind. Sometimes people drop out of college, or something tragic happens to them, or they decide they don’t want to be in the sorority, but we keep their boxes as part of Delta Gamma history. What’s your case about, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“It involves some questionable photographs.”
“Oh.” She gave her red glasses a push. “Well, we warn our pledges to be very careful about what they post online. It’s so crazy how fast a picture can spread.”
“Is it okay if I look through the keepsake boxes?”
“Of course. Excuse me.”
She hurried off to class. I found Kathleen and Olivia’s yearbook with all its standard pictures, but I was more interested in the keepsake boxes. I didn’t expect to find Kathleen’s or Olivia’s, and I didn’t, but now I had an idea of what I was looking for. If either of them had incriminating photos, this kind of box would be the place to hide them away.
***
Back in Celosia, I stopped in to see the neighbor who lived across the street from Harold. Ernie Bates was a spry little man in his seventies, who was delighted at the chance to flirt with me.
“Madeline, you are the best-looking detective I’ve ever seen. Come in and have a drink.”
I stayed on the porch. “Thanks, Ernie, but I only have a few minutes. I want you to tell me exactly what you saw Friday night.”
“Always happy to cooperate with the law.” Ernie had on a denim baseball cap and a red-and-white-striped shirt under faded overalls. He stuck his thumbs in the shoulder straps as if preparing for a lecture. “It was a nice evening, so I was sitting out here on the porch. I saw Nathan Fenton walking away from Harold’s door round about nine-thirty or so.”
“How did you know it was Nathan?”
“Well, the light caught in them funny glasses he wears. Round ones, you know. Makes him look like some kinda owl.”
“So you didn’t actually see his face.”
“No, but I knew who it was. Who else in town’s got glasses like that? Sure you can’t come in for a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
He indicated one of the rocking chairs. “You’ll have a seat, though, won’t you?”
“Just for a moment. Did you notice any strange cars?”
He inched his rocking chair a little closer to mine. “Nope.”
Nathan would’ve had on his camp tee-shirt and shorts. “Do you remember what Nathan was wearing?”
Ernie eyed me. “Whatever it was, it didn’t look half as hot as what you’re wearing today.”
“Concentrate, Ernie. Did he have on a Camp Lakenwood tee-shirt?”
“Kinda hard to see in the porch light. What color we talking about?”
“Bright yellow and green.”
“Nah, nothing like that. My eyesight’s pretty good, but at night, I have a little trouble. I would’ve been able to see bright yellow, though. I sure like looking at you, girl.”
Ernie’s idea of a leer was such a goofy grin, I had to grin back. “Thank you.”
“You ever get tired of Jerry, you know where to find me. I’ll treat you right.”
“I’m sure you would.”
“I’m not like some people, you know, hollering and fighting and being petty like they was stupid teenagers. I know how to be a gentleman.”
“What people would that be, Ernie?”
“Well, take that Amanda Price, the one who’s always causing a stir, the one what probably killed Harold. Right before she and Roger divorced, they was always having these knock-down drag-out fights. Had one right down town in front of my bench. I told ’em I didn’t appreciate it.”
I had seen Ernie sitting on the bench in front of the drugstore. It was his regular post, and you could find him there every warm day, soaking up the sun and people-watching.
“What sort of fight?” I asked.
“Over their stuff, of course. That’s the trouble with rich folks. They got too much stuff.” Ernie was wound up now. “She told him if he was leaving, she wanted him to clear out all his things, and he’d better not take anything of hers. He said he would if he wanted to. They went round and round till I made ’em go away, said I was going to call the law. Amanda gave me some lip, and Roger looked at me like I was some sort of bug. I don’t care how rich Roger Price is, if he hadn’t of left, I was going to kick him good.”
“I’m glad you didn’t kick him. Doesn’t he carry a big walking stick?”
“Yeah, but I coulda took him.”
“Thanks for the information, Ernie.”
“You come back and see me any time.”
I was halfway down his walk when he called out, “I hope she’s the one what killed Harold. She needs to be put away somewhere.”
***
It was almost lunchtime, so I grabbed takeout from the Chinese restaurant and ate in the car while I made a few phone calls. The folks at the Rossboro Arts Council were glad to answer my questions about grants, including the Web address of the Hunter Hardin Foundation. When I went to the site, I found it was easy to apply for grant money, as long as you were part of an organization devoted to the arts and sent in a reasonable proposal and budget. I’m not sure how Amanda worded her request, but apparently, it worked. Armed with my new info, I called Evan, who, as I suspected, wasn’t aware of Amanda applying for or receiving a grant.
“I suppose it’s for the best,” he said. “We never could’ve financed such a big project.”
“So the money didn’t come to the theater.”
“No, I guess it came right to the Improvement Society.”
Of which Amanda was president.
“Anyone can fill ou
t the forms,” he said. “She can put Women’s Improvement Society and describe what she needs the grant for, and if it’s approved, she gets the money.”
“But she can’t personally get all that money, right?”
“That depends. Hunter Hardin is one of those foundations that require little or no accountability. Of course, I always create a financial report with everything listed. I don’t want to get into trouble with our auditors.”
“Amanda would have to have a financial report, then.”
“Yes, but she could still fudge the details. For instance, on mine I have a line item titled ‘Production Costs.’ Anyone can see the amount that was spent—say seven thousand dollars for sets for a show—but not how it was spent or what it was spent for. Maybe a thousand went for a backdrop and another thousand for a special staircase. Those details I have in another report.”
“So Amanda could say a thousand dollars is going for grape costumes when really she keeps that money for herself?”
“Unless somebody follows up on every item, yes, she could.”
Then I gave a Jerry a call, but his phone went to voice mail. I didn’t think much of it. He was probably teaching a craft class, or helping the campers play a game. I left him a message that I was heading out to Peaceful Meadow and would check with him later.
***
Nell had given me directions to Peaceful Meadow. I drove out of town and down another winding country road to an old rundown barn. A sign leaned against a broken fence rail at the dirt road leading past the barn. The letters and decorations had faded, but I could read “Welcome to Peaceful Meadow” and make out a design of flowers and peace signs. My car joggled along the dirt road filled with holes and patches of grass. At the end of the drive, the land opened up to a large empty meadow. I parked and got out of the car. Grasshoppers erupted from the grass and bounced away. Birds wheeled overhead. Other than the welcome sign, there was nothing to indicate any sort of community had ever been here.
It was peaceful, though, and I imagined if you liked living outdoors and communing with nature, it could be a nice place. I also imagined young Amanda swinging a half-eaten turnip and proclaiming, “As God is my witness I’m never eating granola again!” As a child, I would’ve enjoyed running in the meadow, climbing trees, maybe finding a stream to play in. Normal childhood activities, unlike my upbringing, which involved standing in stiff, jewel-encrusted dresses with a pile of heavy curls on my head, and a fixed smile on my face.
