Lions and Tigers and Murder, Oh My

by Denise Swanson

  After stowing his belongings in the back room, Taryn came up to the counter, and once I’d handed a woman her purchases, he said, “Hi, Dev. Do you want me to set up for the knitting group?”

  The Knittie Gritties, a knitting club that met at my shop every Monday afternoon at two, was one of several groups for whom I provided meeting space. In exchange, they bought the materials for their projects, refreshments, and any other bits and pieces that caught their eye from me.

  “That would be great,” I answered distractedly. “Put out the usual chairs.”

  I was keeping an eye on a group of women examining my racy Halloween offering. They’d been giggling, which I hoped meant they were intrigued rather than offended. So far no one had objected to the erotic half of my display, but the day was young.

  “Why are you staring at those ladies?” Taryn tilted his head, and his wire-rimmed glasses slipped down his nose. “Are they shoplifting?”

  “No.” I didn’t want to explain my concern to a sixteen-year-old.

  “Then why are you frowning and biting your thumbnail?” Taryn was a keen observer. “Why don’t you just go over and ask what they’re doing?”

  “Because I don’t want to bite the hand that—”

  “Looks dirty,” Taryn finished for me.

  If it were someone else who said that, I’d think they were making a joke, but Taryn had no sense of humor. Or at least none that I’d been able to find, so I nodded my agreement.

  “Do you want me to go over there?” Taryn offered, and when I shook my head, he stared at me for a moment, then shrugged and asked, “Are you opening the teen lounge today?”

  “Yes. I told the kids a week, and it ended on Saturday.”

  Although I allowed Taryn to handle the lounge, I popped up there at irregular intervals to keep an eye on the group. On one of my stealth visits, I’d caught some of the popular kids tormenting a chubby freshman girl and had closed the room for seven days as a punishment. Beyond not wrecking the joint, I didn’t have many rules for the kids. But any kind of bullying was a crash-and-burn offense.

  “Shall I set up the drink and snack bar up there?” Taryn asked.

  “Do the crafters first, then the teens,” I instructed. “Will you be okay handling the lounge or do you want me to do it?”

  “I can do it.” Taryn pushed up his glasses. “They’ll be on their best behavior after you closed the space. None of them ever thought you’d go through with it, but now they know you will.”

  “That’s right,” I said, then having not learned from my previous attempt at using a cliché around Taryn, I foolishly added, “Once bitten, twice—”

  “The stitches.” Taryn frowned.

  “Good to know,” I said solemnly, then glanced at my watch. “You better get a move on. The knitters will be here in half an hour.”

  I hid a smile as he scurried away. The teens hadn’t expected me to enforce the consequences of breaking my rules. But what they didn’t realize is that I had no maternal instinct, which meant I didn’t feel sorry for them, and I couldn’t care less if they got mad at me. After all, it wasn’t as if there was any other place in town that would allow them to hang out like I did.

  While Taryn got things ready for the crafters, I continued to serve customers. By one forty-five, the rush was dying down, and when the first of the Knittie Gritties arrived, I was able to accompany them to the craft alcove.

  For the scrapbookers, quilters, and sewers, I set up long worktables, but when the knitters, crocheters, and needlepointers held their meetings, I had Taryn haul out the comfy chairs and ottomans. They appreciated the coziness, and a relaxed shopper is more in the mood to spend his or her hard-earned money.

  When the group had first started meeting at my store, I’d expected the stereotypical blue-haired old ladies. But my narrow-mindedness had taken a hit when the ages ranged from early twenties to nearly ninety. And my biases were totally shot down when one of the members had turned out to be male. I was slowly learning how my preconceived notions about people were often entirely off base.

  Normally, I didn’t hang around during the club’s meeting, but today I wanted to pump them for any gossip about Gabriella and Elliot Winston. With that goal in mind, I took the chair next to Irene Johnson.

  Irene was a tall, solidly built woman, with a stoic air and calloused hands. She kept house for several individuals in town, including Noah, and I hoped she might know which service the Winstons had hired.

  Irene and I chatted for a few minutes, then I asked her, “Do you know who cleans for Elliot and Gabriella Winston?”

  “I heard they hired that fancy new company that just opened up in Sparkville.” Irene rummaged in her knitting bag. “Diamond Discreet.”

  “Do you know anyone around here who works for that business?” I asked.

  “Uh-uh.” Irene shook her head. “Diamond Discreet only uses people from the city and not too many of them speak much English. DD claims they can’t risk us locals gossiping about their clients.”

  “That’s discriminatory.” I narrowed my eyes. “Maybe those of you who have applied and been turned down should sue Diamond Discreet. I’m sure Boone St. Onge would handle the case and take his fee from the settlement.”

  It frosted me when money that should be spent in Shadow Bend went into Kansas City instead. But it was hard to convince people that they could get the same items or services cheaper and/or better in town.

  “Nah.” Irene grinned. “I make way more as an independent contractor.”

  “Good to know.” I patted her hand and said, “Nice chatting. Have fun. I’d better go see if anyone needs anything. Oh, just FYI, I’ve got your favorites—maple oat pecan scones today. And they go fast.”

  Getting up, I wandered over to where Vivian Yager sat with her lap covered by a half-finished sweater. She was an attractive woman in her late forties, the founder of the Knittie Gritties, and the owner of Curl Up and Dye. I particularly wanted to talk to her, because her beauty shop was a hotbed of gossip.

  Vivian personified all that I loved about living in a small town. Her sparkling personality and a heartfelt smile welcomed everyone, and she was quick to offer help to anyone in need. Her original little group of knitters had grown from less than a handful to over a dozen, and she welcomed the new additions as if they were old friends.

  I pulled up an ottoman next to her chair and said, “How’re you doing with the ghost tour?”

  Vivian was an active member of the chamber of commerce and was the head of the committee organizing the Halloween weekend activities. Instead of the usual cheesy haunted house, she and her group had found area locations that were supposedly frequented by spirits.

  “It’s suffered a devastating blow.” Vivian screwed up her face. “We’ve been trying to get permission from the owner of the Malone house to use it. That spooky place would be our star attraction. But the city council is alleging that it’s structurally unsound and won’t allow us to include it.”

  “Because of that fire a few months ago?” I guessed, recalling the article in the town paper. “I thought it only damaged the basement.”

  “That’s what the first inspector concluded, but the mayor hired an independent guy, and he said that smoke and water affected the whole place.” Vivian made quotes in the air and added, “Worsening the derelict condition the building was already in.” Vivian ran her finger over the embroidered daisy pattern on her knitting bag. “Not that his report was a surprise. The mayor wants the house torn down.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Hizzoner has some sort of scheme going for the land around it.” Vivian made a face. “He wants that acreage, and it will be cheaper without the building.”

  I tried to remember what I knew about the house. It was on the road that ran behind my family’s property. If you cut across the field, it was an easy walk between the
two. When I was a teenager and wanted to sneak out at night, I’d have my friends pick me up at the end of the Malones’ driveway.

  “Who owns it?” I asked.

  It hadn’t been occupied since Roberta Malone died in a fire my freshman year of college. And as far as I could tell, there hadn’t been much upkeep in all that time.

  “That’s part of the problem.” Vivian clanked shut the round metal handles of her bag. “We’d like to get our own inspector in to refute the mayor’s, but we need the owner’s permission. Hizzoner didn’t need it, because he was acting on behalf of the city and public safety.”

  “Right,” I sneered.

  Vivian grinned and continued, “Riyad Oberkircher handles the taxes and such on the house, but he’s telling us that due to client-attorney privilege, he can’t divulge the identity of the owner.” She reached up and smoothed her short ash-blond hair, then sighed. “The records still show Roberta Malone on the deed.”

  “But didn’t Roberta Malone die in the previous fire?”

  “Yep.” Vivian slipped the point protectors off her needles. “Rumor has it that fire was set by the jealous wife of Roberta’s married lover, and now Roberta haunts the place looking for revenge. There have been a lot of reports of strange lights and noises. Which is why the house is the perfect ending for our tour.”

  “Yikes!” It was silly, but I wasn’t a big fan of disturbing things that went bump in the night. I thought awhile, then said, “Wait a minute. Maybe the present-day owner is a descendant of Roberta and she has the same name as her relative. A distant cousin or something.”

  “Maybe. But if so, she doesn’t want to be found.” Vivian shrugged. “When the wife of the propane delivery man told me that he fills the tank at the Malone house about once a year and it’s hooked to a generator, I was almost convinced that someone was living there. Unfortunately, the bill goes to the lawyer, and Riyad claims that the generator is used to keep the furnace running in the winter, so the pipes don’t freeze. And he says the lights are on timers to discourage burglars.”

  “Sure,” I said, snickering. “Because no one around here knows the place is empty.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It sure would be a shame to just tear down such a cool old house,” I mused. “I think it’s the only nineteen hundreds French Colonial in Shadow Bend.”

  “It would.” Vivian’s knitting needles clicked in a soothing rhythm. “There’s a beautiful mural on the staircase wall, and the dining room has a gorgeous hand-painted and jeweled ceiling.” She tsked. “Four generations of Malones lived there. Think of all the fancy parties that old house has seen. All the wheeling and dealing.”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t you remember?” Vivian gave me a strange look. “Roberta’s father was Shadow Bend’s mayor for over thirty years.”

  “Right. I’d forgotten that.” I nodded, then brought the conversation around to my intended subject before Vivian had sidetracked me with the Malone house controversy. “Do you know Gabriella and Elliot Winston?”

  “Elliot spoke to the chamber of commerce.” Vivian didn’t question why I was asking about the couple. This was a small town. Eventually most residents came up for discussion. “It was one of the meetings you didn’t make.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “He was enthusiastic.” Vivian’s tone was neutral. “But I’m not sure about his wildlife park. I suppose it might help the town economy, but who can say.”

  “True. It’s really hard to figure out what’s a good idea and what isn’t,” I agreed. “Did his wife accompany him to the meeting?”

  “No.” Vivian shook her head. “Apparently, she’s against him opening the park.”

  “Really?” I pasted a surprised expression on my face. “Why do you say that?”

  “My nephew Vaughn is dating Muffy Morgan, and she’s Gabriella’s BFF.” Vivian raised a brow. “Muffy mentioned that Gabriella was so upset about how much money Elliot is sinking into that place, she consulted a lawyer.”

  “About a divorce?” I asked.

  “Muffy didn’t say.” Vivian shrugged. “Just that Gabriella wanted to see if there was any way to protect her share of the marital assets.”

  “Seems prudent.” I stood. “I guess I’d better get back to work. Do you or your group need anything?”

  After Vivian assured me they were all set, I returned to the front of the store. I sent Jake a quick text about Gabriella and the lawyer, then got to work.

  The after-school crowd would be in soon, and I had to make sure the soda fountain was fully stocked and ready for the onslaught. Taryn would handle drinks, as well as the other snacks upstairs, but it was still warm enough that a lot of the kids would want ice cream. And I’d found out the hard way that making hungry teenagers wait in line was never a good thing.

  As I made sundaes, milk shakes, and banana splits, I thought about what Vivian had told me about Gabriella. Did Elliot know about the lawyer? Because if he did, that might have given him a motive to murder his wife.

  CHAPTER 7

  It was five fifty and the Knittie Gritties were long gone, as were Taryn and the teenagers. The only ones left in the store were a couple of last-minute shoppers wandering the aisles and Jake, who had just come down from his office and taken a seat at the soda fountain.

  I poured him a cup of coffee and nudged a plate of leftover pastries in his direction. When he grabbed a bear claw and devoured it in two bites, I grinned. Another plus in having him around was that he could eat the surplus treats before I ended up stuffing them into my mouth. I hated seeing food go to waste, and I couldn’t sell day-old baked goods, so they often ended up in my stomach—and on my hips.

  Watching him demolish a chocolate chip scone, I wondered how, eating the way he did, he kept his stomach so flat. It was probably the hard ranch work, wrestling bales of hay and five-hundred-pound calves, while my daily exercise mostly consisted of stocking shelves and scooping ice cream. But I had a sneaking suspicion that Jake’s metabolism might be way better than mine, too.

  When the final customers headed toward the front counter, I scooted over to the cash register and rang up their orders. After bagging their selections, I walked with them to the door, said good-bye, turned the lock, and flipped on the neon CLOSED sign.

  Although it had only been a half day, we’d been busy nearly every single second, and I was pooped. Returning to the soda fountain, I picked up the pot and emptied the remaining coffee into my mug. After dumping in some fake sugar and creamer, I dropped onto the stool next to Jake and blew out a tired sigh.

  After taking an energy-enhancing sip, I asked, “Any progress with the Winston case?”

  “Nothing so far.” Jake frowned. “I’m heading out to show Gabriella’s picture to some of the places that sounded the most promising on the phone, but I’m not holding my breath that anyone will recognize her.”

  I made a sympathetic sound, then asked, “Will you be talking to Gabriella’s best friend, Muffy Morgan? Did you see my text saying that Muffy told her boyfriend’s aunt that Gabriella had consulted an attorney to stop Elliot from pouring all their money into the wildlife park?”

  “Yep.” Jake narrowed his eyes. “I need to stop by Winston’s house later and see if he knew about it.”

  “Do you think he’ll tell you the truth?”

  “Hard to say. That’s why I want to ask him in person, so I can see his reaction.” Jake set his empty cup on the counter and reached for the last pastry. “You still planning to see Poppy and Boone tonight?”

  “Uh-huh.” I rolled my shoulders, trying to loosen the tense muscles. “We’re meeting at seven for tacos and margaritas.”

  Generally, when the three of us wanted to have a long heart-to-heart, we got together at Poppy’s bar. But because she’d been acting so strangely lately, I phoned Boone to plan our strategy. I told him
about the scene between Poppy and her father at the police station and suggested we have dinner at the Mexican restaurant near the highway instead of at Gossip Central.

  Boone agreed and said he’d speak to Poppy and that he’d drag her to the restaurant if necessary. We both knew she preferred to stay at her club so she could keep a close eye on the business. But Gossip Central was closed on Monday night, so she didn’t have that excuse.

  Jake broke in to my thoughts about my BFFs and asked, “How’s your grandmother doing?” As he spoke, he got up, stood behind me, and started massaging my neck. “Birdie and Tony seem to be seeing a lot of each. I hear they’re taking a senior bus trip to a play in Kansas City tonight.”

  Tony Del Vecchio was Jake’s great-uncle and Gran’s teenage sweetheart. Because Tony was a year older than Birdie, he graduated from high school first. When she’d refused to marry him until she got her diploma, he’d enlisted in the marines. That impulsive decision had resulted in Tony fighting in the Korean War and going MIA just before it ended.

  While I had been growing up, Gran and Tony had avoided each other. Even after both their spouses died, they hadn’t reconnected, which was odd, since Tony had purchased all the land Gran had sold off, and our properties shared a border. Only after I’d been accused of murder and Gran had been forced to ask for help to clear my name, had they started seeing each other again.

  I knew their decades-long estrangement had something to do with her marrying my grandfather so soon after Tony went missing. However, she’d always refused to tell me the reason for her hasty wedding.

  In the past, I hadn’t wanted to upset her by attempting to pry the information out of her. But it might be time to get those facts on the table and clear the air.

  Although I was happy that she and Tony had rekindled their friendship and were dating after all those years, it worried me that there might be a secret between them that could ruin their happiness. Plus, if I ended up with Jake, a problem between his uncle and my grandmother was bound to mean that he and I would be on opposite sides, which would be detrimental to our relationship, too.