“This is my husband, Beau.” A middle-aged man with receding hair and a beer belly stood up from a faded leather recliner and switched off the TV. He gave James a powerfully firm handshake and thanked Lucy profusely for the muffins.
“We told the deputy everything we know, which is basically not a thing.” Caroline smiled wanly. “But ask us anything you want. If we had the bail money to get Whitney out of there . . .” she trailed off, embarrassed. “We’re trying to borrow from my sister, but she’s got her own troubles.”
Beau cleared his throat. “We just don’t have a nest egg anymore after all of the medical bills.”
Lucy bobbed her head in sympathy. “This might seem like going back a ways, but could you tell us about your surgery. I want to understand anything I can about this Coumadin stuff.”
Beau nodded. “It’s easier to talk to y’all, anyway. That Keith Donovan comes in here like he owns the place, struttin’ about and tryin’ to scare us. Why, I remember when that boy . . .” He checked himself. “That doesn’t help right now though, does it? Well, as you probably know, I was a roofer. Ran my own business,” he added proudly. “Things were goin’ along just swell. We had enough to send Whitney to James Madison and were putting more away for my retirement. I wanted to quit early enough to take Caroline to some real nice places.”
James could see Caroline smiling at her husband with a mixture of pride and sadness.
“One day last spring, I had just come down off the ladder, thank the Lord, when this pain shot up my left arm like an electric shock. Don’t remember a thing until I woke up in the hospital the next day and the doctor told me I had had a heart attack. He said he had to give me a new heart valve, the mechanical kind, and that he had some more bad news.” Beau paused, no doubt recalling the exact conversation. His eyes went to his lap and James could feel the painful memory coursing through the older man. His heart went out to him, but once again, he had no idea what to say or how to gently coax the difficult narrative along.
“It’s alright, Beau.” His wife put her hand on top of his. “The doc told us that Beau had a stroke during the surgery. His heart was gonna be fine, but his balance was never going to be the same again. They said he could never go up on another roof. They don’t even want him to drive. So he sold his business to George Dundy, his right-hand man, and now Beau’s workin’ real hard doin’ other kinds of jobs.”
James filled the silence following Caroline’s explanation with his first question. “And you’ve been taking the Coumadin since the spring?”
“Five milligrams a day,” Beau answered.
Lucy asked, “That’s a bottle per month?” When Beau nodded, she frowned. “Is there any possibility that you lost one or got an extra bottle once?”
Caroline laughed at that. “Mr. Goodbee would have your head if he heard you talk like that down at the drug store.”
“I know it,” Lucy grinned. “Still, you never lost one?”
“No.” Beau sighed morosely. “It’s the thing I keep comin’ back to in my head. But you know, my memory just isn’t what it was before that stroke. I didn’t tell that deputy this, ’cause he’d just use it against my little girl, but that’s the truth.”
Caroline patted her husband’s hand again. “Sweetheart, you can’t blame yourself for what happened.”
“Who else should I blame then?” Beau roared, causing everyone to jump. His anger subsided as quickly as it had flared and he rubbed his face with calloused hands. “I’m sorry. I know you folks just wanna help.”
Lucy sat thoughtfully gazing out the window.
“Would anyone like some coffee?” Caroline offered. “One of my friends brought me back this terrific blend from her trip to New Orleans.”
Suddenly, Lucy’s eyes sparkled. “Wait a minute, Mrs. Livingstone, ah, Caroline, did y’all go anywhere after Beau got home from the hospital? Any trips out of town?”
Caroline screwed up her lip as she thought. “I don’t think . . . Yes! We did! My sister’s anniversary party. We went to Baltimore for the weekend, ’member, Beau?”
Beau shot out of his chair like a rocket. “Sweet Jesus, Caroline! I forgot my pills that weekend! I forgot to pack them!” he yelled excitedly. “Do you remember? I do!” He grabbed James enthusiastically by the shoulder, his hand squeezing like a vise.
“Oh my stars, that’s right! We had to go to one of those twenty-four-hour pharmacies to get you a refill.”
James could feel the energy flowing through the room. It was as if tiny streaks of lighting were filling every person with the radiance of hope.
“Was Whitney home alone?” Lucy asked breathlessly.
“Yes. It was Labor Day weekend, just over a month ago. Whitney had to work most of the weekend, poor darlin’, but she didn’t want to go to that old-folks party anyway.” Caroline returned to her chair, the coffee forgotten.
James hadn’t forgotten dinner, however. In fact, he was downright starving. As glad as he was that they were making progress, he couldn’t think of anything but the demands of his empty stomach at the moment.
“I didn’t want to go to that party either,” Beau added sulkily.
“Do you know if Whitney had anyone over?” James wondered, trying to keep his mind from thoughts of crunchy, savory cheese puffs.
“Never thought to ask.” Caroline shrugged. “She’s such a responsible girl. If she wanted to have one of her girlfriends over, she could have, without checking with us first. We ask so much from her as it is.” Caroline’s eyes filled. “Do you think this could help?”
“I’ll talk to Whitney first thing tomorrow morning, find out if she had anyone over. At least this takes some of the heat off her.” Lucy assured the Livingstones. “Someone else could have taken that bottle of pills from your house.”
“If someone was here and also at the diner before the Homecoming game . . .” James mused aloud.
“Then we might just have ourselves a genuine suspect,” Lucy said, almost in a whisper.
Beau and Caroline thanked them both for coming, their faces uplifted with the knowledge that their daughter might be released from jail. The couple decided that they would pay a visit to Sheriff Huckabee in the morning, explaining that their house could have been entered by anyone the weekend they had gone to Baltimore.
“We never lock the house. It’s one of the reasons we live in a town like this. They can’t hold Whitney after we talk to the sheriff.” Caroline insisted and Lucy and James hoped she was right.
On the way back to the library, Lucy handed James two sticks of mozzarella string cheese.
“Thought you might like a snack.”
“Would I? I’m dying!” James gulped one down immediately. Lucy did the same. “You know, you’re really good at talking to people,” James said as they pulled next to James’s old Bronco. “Really. You’ve got a gift.”
Lucy’s face glowed with pleasure. She flashed him one of her beautiful smiles and for the moment, he forgot all about the slovenly condition of her car.
“We make a good team,” she said. “I talk, you listen. You have a gift, too, James. It’s . . . your presence. You don’t even need to say anything. It’s like, your humbleness or something.”
James was completely tongue-tied. After all, his wife had always told him that he was a dull conversationalist and that he needed to pipe up more at social events. James had always preferred listening, but Jane claimed that he was too much of a wallflower and that no one even noticed when he had gone home.
Now, Lucy was complimenting him for being himself. He was so stunned with the wonder of it that if he had been standing in front of Lucy at that moment, he might have taken her boldly in his arms and kissed her. But she was in her car and night had fallen around them as he stood there, the passenger door ajar, trying to figure out how to react to all he was feeling. And just like that, he felt the moment passing him by.
“Let me know what Whitney says,” he murmured hurriedly, before closing the door. “Just
give me a call at work.”
Lucy nodded, her expression of happiness evaporating in the face of his indifferent manner. With a brief wave, she pulled away without looking back.
There hadn’t been a murder in Quincy’s Gap since 1913. A few days before Christmas, Barnaby Forrester stole the mayor’s horse after losing his entire fortune in a high-stakes poker game. Everyone told Barnaby not to play Robbie MacDougal in poker as MacDougal was the best player in the Shenandoah Valley.
Barnaby Forrester entered the town’s only tavern, asking for a shot of whiskey and a card game. After losing all of his cash and jewelry, Forrester also signed over the deed to his family’s horse farm sometime after midnight, and everyone thought he was defeated at last. But Forrester insisted on playing one more hand, for the very mare on which he had ridden into town.
Most of the witnesses present for this notorious last hand were several jars into their moonshine, but all would have sworn that MacDougal tried to bow out gracefully. Forrester insisted, however, and had even called MacDougal “yellow.” Just after the stroke of midnight, the final hand was dealt. Forrester thought he had it in the bag as he held two pairs of kings in his smooth, citified hands. MacDougal, a man who labored as a farmhand most of his days, held a full house in his rough and work-worn fingers. When the bets were called, Forrester saw his opponent’s cards, shot up as if struck by a whip, and bolted outside.
Most of the men who chased Forrester outside assumed he was only trying to mount his horse and make a getaway, but Forrester didn’t grab the bridle of his own horse. He mounted the mayor’s horse—a fine bay gelding newly purchased for a dear price from one of the nearby farms. Acting on a command from the incensed mayor, MacDougal raised the tavern keeper’s shotgun and hit Forrester square in the chest as the thief attempted to ride him down.
There had been no trial. The mayor put a word in the judge’s ear and several witnesses came forward to attest the necessity of the shooting. Horses were (and are still) a treasure greater than gold in the Shenandoah Valley and MacDougal was never brought up on any charges. The Shenandoah Star Ledger printed the story of Forrester’s final gamble on its front page for a week straight. It had taken ninety-three years for another murder to occur to occupy that prominent position in the county’s only daily paper.
Murphy Alistair, reporter and managing editor, had entitled her front-page piece FORMER FOOTBALL STAR SLAIN! She splashed photos of Brinkley over the next three pages, including interior and exterior shots of the Sweet Tooth, and a file photo of Megan on the bakery’s opening day. Every day since whispers of Whitney’s arrest had crossed her desk, Murphy had been zealously writing about the untimely death of Brinkley Myers.
Whitney was released early Tuesday morning. As she and her parents exited through the courthouse doors, Murphy leapt toward them, snapping photos with her digital camera as she shouted questions at them. Beau tucked his daughter behind him and faced Murphy with an expression that could have stopped a charging bull in its tracks. He raised his hand in front of the camera lens and moved so close to the exuberant reporter that he could smell oranges on her breath.
“Ms. Alistair, my girl has had a hard couple of days and we’d like to get her on home.” He gently pushed the camera downwards. “This is not the time for your questions.”
“The Star’s readers have a right to know what’s happening in their county, Mr. Livingstone. And your daughter has been falsely accused.” Her eyes widened in feigned shock. “Don’t you want to set the record straight on her account?”
Caroline shoved past her husband. “Look here, missy. This was just all a misunderstandin’. Anyone with a lick of sense knows that Whitney wouldn’t do something like this.”
“Of course not!” Murphy exclaimed, switching tactics. “Whitney, it must have been horrible to have spent the night in jail. Poor, innocent lamb. Would you like to comment on the treatment you received while you were incarcerated?”
The Livingstones walked briskly past the reporter.
“I’ll call you at home. Just to get a few quotes!” Murphy called after them. Scurrying inside, she hoped to corner the sheriff or one of the deputies to ask about the lack of developments in their case. Nothing stirred up her readers like the belief that their tax dollars were going to waste.
As the work week marched on, another of Murphy Alistair’s headlines stared at James as he organized the newspaper rack. From WAITRESS FALSELY ACCUSED! on Tuesday to WILL MURDERER STRIKE AGAIN? on Wednesday, the headlines had everyone in the town talking.
E-mails among the Flab Five flew back and forth like witches on brooms. The first was from Lucy, describing her quick visit to Whitney’s cell prior to her release.
Dear Fellow Flabs,
I saw Whitney this morning and was able to ask her if she was alone at home during the weekend her parents were away. She said she worked most of the time, which is what her parents said, too. Still, I asked her again if she had any friends over. She denied it, but there was something in the way she said “no” that makes me think she’s hiding something. I don’t know why she would, but my gut (and it’s big enough to know!) feels that something’s not right about all this. Lindy, do you remember who Whitney was friendly with in school? It’s only been two years since she graduated, so maybe she still hangs out with the same crowd.
Hope to see you all at the Halloween Parade Saturday night. Should we meet somewhere and watch it together?
Lucy
Lucy’s reference to the Halloween parade reminded James that the twins were planning to enter a float in the upcoming parade contest. He tracked Scott down dusting shelves in the audio/video section.
“We’ve got to update some of these audio books, Professor.” Scott pointed at the scant number of plastic book boxes with his duster. “We haven’t added a new release in this section since 1998. Mrs. Kramer didn’t believe in patrons listening to books instead of reading them. We only have these because people donated them.”
James agreed. “I know that many elderly members of our clientele prefer to listen. Especially if their vision isn’t that great.”
“Mothers, too,” Scott added, nudging at his glasses. “They’re so busy that they can play a book while they’re getting stuff done at home, like folding laundry or cooking dinner.”
“You have amazing insight about the habits of our patrons.” James gave Scott a fatherly pat on his scrawny back. Scott beamed with pride. “How’s the float coming along?” James asked.
“Pretty well. We’ve been working on it ’til late at night.”
James noticed telltale shadows beneath Scott’s Coke-bottle glasses. “Listen, you and Francis should work half-days for the rest of the week. I think the float is great publicity for the library and you two shouldn’t have to spend all of your free time building it.”
Scott blinked in surprise. “Really? But . . . how would that affect our . . .” He looked down at his boatlike feet, clearly trying to phrase his question delicately.
“Your paychecks will be the same. I can handle the afternoons alone for a few days. Tell Francis that you can both take off after lunch.” James lowered his voice even more than his usual library murmur. “It’ll be our secret.”
“Yes, sir!” Scott saluted, his face aglow with happiness. As he dusted the top shelf on his tiptoes, Scott whispered to the empty space surrounding the audio books, “We’re going to win that money. Then we’ll get more audio books, more videos, and maybe, just maybe, a decent computer in this place!”
By the time James returned to his desk, thinking of how fortunate he was to work with the industrious and big-hearted Fitzgerald twins, a new e-mail was awaiting him.
Dear Dietmates,
If we can help Lucy find out what Whitney may be covering for (or who!), those good old boys down at the sheriff’s office might just treat her with new respect. I don’t know who Whitney might have had over that weekend, but I do know that Whitney and Allison Shilling, of Shilling’s Stables (you
know, the richest family in Quincy’s Gap!) were best friends when they were Seniors here at Blue Ridge High.
Speaking of friends, it seems like Brinkley had a lot of girlfriends but really only hung out with one guy. This boy was on the football team with Brinkley. His name is Darryl Jeffries. He works at the gas station over by the highway entrance.
That’s all the news I have. Did you all see the headlines in The Star this week? That woman has gone completely nutso!
Let’s meet outside of Dolly’s Diner to watch the parade. I will bring us some snacks so we won’t be tempted by all the candy thrown out off of the floats.
’Til then,
Lindy
By the time Saturday arrived, James was worn out. Taking over for the twins had been harder than he expected. For the first time, he had had to conduct the children’s story times. On Wednesday, reading The Square Pumpkin to a group of a dozen children under five had been easy. Helping them create and decorate their own square pumpkin trick-or-treat bags had been almost impossible. Cutting and gluing seemed to be gargantuan tasks for his pint-sized audience and James had never imagined the amazing mess of having glitter cover every surface area of the trick-or-treat bags, the table, and half of the children’s clothing.
When one of the children said, “You look like a nice, fat pumpkin, Mr. Henry. I’ll just draw you,” James thought he was going to give up on the whole project. Luckily, the mothers had all pitched in and helped him hand out Dixie cups of orange Kool-Aid and square pumpkin cookies (graham crackers covered with orange frosting with a smiling mouth and eyes made out of candy corn).
Francis had made the treats during his lunch break the day before, carefully wrapping them with cellophane and hiding them in the fridge inside a brown grocery bag so as not to tempt James. James was not to escape temptation so easily, however. When a 5-year-old girl dressed as Raggedy Ann removed all of the candy corns from her cookie and placed them delicately in James’s hand, he stared at them as if they were gold nuggets.
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