“Ms. Simonsen, this is my sister, Becca, and our friend Sam,” Allison said as we approached.
Pauline extended her long-fingered hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” she greeted each of us.
“So sorry for your loss,” I said as I shook her hand gently.
“We’ve met,” Sam said. It probably would have been wrong not to remind her that he was a police officer, but I wished he hadn’t.
“Ah, yes, Officer Brion, I believe? Well, it’s nice to see you out of your police mode.”
“I hope you’re well, Mrs. Simonsen.”
“I’m . . . all right, thank you.” She turned her attention to Allison. “You’ve been extremely kind. Matty only worked at Bailey’s a short time and . . . well, all of your efforts have been appreciated. I wanted to be here earlier for the moment of silence, but was held up at home.” She paused, which automatically made me think she was lying. “I just, well, I just want everyone at Bailey’s to know that I don’t hold anyone here tonight responsible for the . . . what happened. I know Abner Justen is a suspect and I heard he’s been arrested, so I . . . gosh, well, I wanted to say thank you and tell you that I think all of this horribleness is behind us now.”
“Abner was arrested? I hadn’t heard,” I lied.
We all looked at Sam, Pauline included. He didn’t bat an eye or say a word, and he did it without looking uncomfortable or uncertain.
“Well, I don’t know anything for certain,” Pauline continued when it was obvious that Sam wasn’t going to confirm or deny anything, “but I got a phone call from a friend who works downtown, near the jail. She thought she saw him being taken in.”
“I see. Well, that’s a relief. That must ease your mind,” I said.
“Quite a bit, actually. From the beginning, I thought he killed my Matty.” She looked purposefully at Sam.
“Really? Why?” I asked.
“There’s a history there that I won’t go into, but it wasn’t pretty.” Her eyes teared, and I felt a twinge of pity for her. I told the twinge to go away.
“When was the last time you and Abner spoke?” I asked.
“Oh, a long time ago.” She smiled through watery eyes. “Barry”—she nodded in the direction he had gone—“and Abner have lived close to me and Matty for years. We’ve all known each other since we were very young.”
I tried not to let it show, but I wanted to shake my head like cartoon characters did after they’d been hit by an anvil. I knew Barry’s address, but the one address I hadn’t thought to explore was the Simonsens’. I assumed they lived in Smithfield. Had I been wrong? I looked at Sam, who read my confusion. He wasn’t confused at all—he knew where everyone lived. I hadn’t asked enough questions.
“I know where Abner lives, Ms. Simonsen, but where do you live? And I thought Barry lived across town from Abner.” I literally scratched my head.
Her eyes opened wide. “Oh. Sorry, yes. Barry sold his farm some time ago—oh, my gracious, a long, long time ago—to Carl Monroe; I don’t know him all that well, but he’s a nice man. I think I’ve been reminiscing so much lately that I still think about Barry living next door. Anyway, it’s probably been decades.”
Barry used to live in Carl’s monster house? He’d told me that he’d gotten out of the peach business. So Carl’s orchard used to be Barry’s?
Pauline Simonsen had the full attention of her audience of three. I didn’t think she was as confused as she seemed—I thought she was putting on an act, but I couldn’t figure out if it was for the benefit of Allison, me, or Sam. And even though she said she was sure Abner was the murderer, it seemed that she’d found a way to throw Barry into the suspicion pile, too. Apparently, she wanted us to know they had all lived near one another at one time.
“Decades? When was this, exactly? What was the precise date that Barry moved?” I asked. I wasn’t sure of the relevance of such information, but it seemed like the right question to ask.
Pauline’s eyes dried and then flashed. Her pretty face suddenly wasn’t as soft as it had been. It was as though that question had made her angry. “I . . . I can’t remember right now. Why?”
“Just curious.”
“No, I don’t really know,” Pauline said as she sniffed and looked at me. Apparently, she had tired of my questions. “I suppose I should go, but I really did want to thank you.” She turned to Allison.
“Thank you for coming by,” Allison said soothingly. “We’re all so very sorry for your loss. Please let us know if you need anything at all.”
Pauline Simonsen turned and left the party tent with sure, almost defiant, steps.
“I didn’t mean to offend her,” I said. “I just couldn’t quite figure her out.”
“It’s okay,” Allison said. “No disrespect to the dead or the grieving, but there’s something about that woman that rubs me the wrong way. I hoped you’d get to the bottom of it.”
“Really?” I looked at her and then at Sam. “Did I mess anything up?”
“Not at all. I was hoping the same thing as Allison. It was odd, the way she almost acted as though she wanted to answer my questions until she suddenly didn’t. I talked to her and her son after the murder. They were both genuinely shocked at what had happened, but you’re right, Allison, there was something . . . almost fake about her tonight, like she’d scripted her words. And the way she mentioned Barry . . .” Sam looked toward the table Barry had been sitting at. He wasn’t there.
“Do you think she really heard about Abner’s arrest?” I said.
“I suppose it’s possible, but I think more people at the party would be talking about it if someone had seen him being taken in.”
“Well, I’ll tell you this, I want to know what’s up with her. It’s rare that I feel something so wonky from someone. Excuse me. I need to see to the band.” Allison took off.
I watched her walk away. “You know, she knows people better than anyone. There must be something up with Pauline if she says there is.”
“I don’t disagree, but ‘wonky’ doesn’t hold up well in a court of law.”
“Right. Who should we question next?” I asked, excited at the idea.
“I don’t know. We’ll keep our options open. Tomorrow I’ll look into some things that have come to light tonight, but for now, we dance.”
“Really?” I said, both horrified at the idea and curious that Sam even had “dance” in his vocabulary.
“Really. Come on.” He took my hand, and though neither of us knew how to square dance (Carl and Mamma Maria were pros, by the way), and though Ian had a difficult time remaining amused by the idea of my fake date with Sam Brion, and though Barry was nowhere to be seen, we still managed to have a great time.
Twenty-two
Sam took me home right after the party. We had no more revelations regarding the murder, but we did have fun.
I actually danced some, though it was ugly and brief. At the late hour of 10:30 P.M. my recovering body was exhausted. I fell into bed with Hobbit and slept until eight o’clock; the late hour was unheard of. I woke up, jolted at the time that showed on my clock, and made the decision that I’d take it easy one more day. It was the Monday after one of Bailey’s biggest weekends. It wouldn’t be very busy. Plus, I still needed to work on building up my inventory. And finally, Hobbit deserved to have me at her disposal for at least the entire morning.
First on the list was a long walk around the property—for Hobbit, and to stretch my tightening muscles. I brought a pencil and my light green note cards, but my dog didn’t care just as long as we kept walking as I read through my notes.
Barry’s was the first card on my pile. To my already suspicious notes, I added his strange behavior at the party. Why wouldn’t he tell me who was in the trench coat? Where did he disappear to? Why had Pauline seemed to make it a point that we knew he lived on what was now Carl’s property at one time? None of what he’d done since the murder seemed to jibe or make sense.
But really, was Barry a killer?<
br />
The secrets he kept to himself had something to do with the murder, I was sure, but I didn’t know what or how. His past with Pauline Simonsen might have been incentive enough, because love always is the perfect motive. But Barry had moved on, he’d even left the area where Pauline lived and he’d gotten married. I knew his family, and they were a good group of people. So, despite his secrets and his conversation with a mystery trench-coat-clad person, my gut told me he wasn’t the one who swung the axe.
“But he either suspects or knows who the murderer is,” I said to Hobbit. “I’m sure of it.” I pulled out my cell phone and tried to reach him. It was no surprise that he didn’t answer.
Last night Sam had said that he’d have another conversation with Barry, but it would be to no avail. Barry wasn’t telling anyone anything. There had to be something else that would steer us in the right direction.
I looked at Carl Monroe’s card next. Of everyone, I thought I’d probably been the most wrong about Carl. Talk about being in all the wrong place at the wrong time! Did I believe that he had been at Smithfield to see Mamma Maria and that he had run from me because he didn’t want me to know about his personal life? It seemed likely. Carl had always been quiet, and he and Mamma acted as though they liked each other a lot. The Fall Equinox Dinner was a perfect spot to bring a new girlfriend. I still wondered why she had been at his house, but for all I knew, it was to drop off a toothbrush. Did I still think Carl was the person who’d knocked on Allison’s door when I’d been snooping? I had no idea, so I added three question marks. And even if he had been, so what? He had a right to talk to Allison whenever he wanted. But again, my gut kicked in—there was something strange about that visitor.
“I just don’t know, Hobbit. I guess it’s possible, but I don’t know.”
Hobbit nudged my knee enough to let me know she was listening but wasn’t all that interested in the conversation. We’d walked to the low crest above the pumpkin patch. The temperature was cool but not cold, and the sky was dotted with puffy white clouds. I took a moment to breathe in the fresh air. Not enough people on the planet get to do what my dog and I were doing; I understood her choosing the interests of the out-of-doors over the murder investigation.
“But like Barry, Carl knows something,” I muttered to myself. “Abner had been at his house, and his house had once been Barry’s. Somehow Carl has become involved, but it has been against his will, I bet.”
Ian’s card was next. My curiosity about him had only increased, and my thoughts that he might be involved in the murder had all but gone away. That might not be a good sign. Maybe he was involved and just a pro at diverting attention. At this point, I had to hope he wasn’t involved. Plans for him were forming in my mind. Once the murder was solved, I’d get back on my normal schedule and maybe throw in a date or two. Ian seemed to be interested in the same idea.
I sighed. Hobbit looked at me and rolled her eyes.
The last card in my stack was Abner’s. And, sadly, he seemed the most likely person to have committed the murder. He’d loved Pauline and she’d chosen Matt Simonsen; he’d stayed close—geographically—to them; he was the one who “found” Matt’s body; the bloody axe had been discovered in his greenhouse—an axe had been used on the tree with his and Pauline’s names.
But what about the shooting? Was Sam right? Had Abner planned for someone to shoot at the cabin to plant the idea of another suspect? Who? It had been frightening, but the gun ended up being harmless enough. I still wanted to ask Abner some questions.
I flipped open my phone and dialed.
“Becca? Everything all right?” Sam answered on the first ring.
“Fine. Hey, I have a question for you. It’s not standard operating procedure, I’m sure, but can I come talk to Abner?”
Sam was silent for a beat. “Well, prisoners are sometimes allowed visitors—very briefly—but I can’t give you any sort of official questioning authority. Besides, you aren’t going to investigate murders anymore, right?”
“Sure, I get it. I’ll be a good visitor. When can I come see him?”
“Today about one o’clock will work.”
“I’ll be there. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. See you then.”
“Sam . . .”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for escorting me to the dinner last night. It was fun.”
“Yes, it was,” he said, his officialness shaken by my friendly tone.
I laughed. “See you later.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I closed the phone.
“Sorry, Hobbit. I only have the rest of the morning. You run, I’ll walk carefully.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I ventured into town twice in one week. Normally, once per week, maybe only twice per month, was typical. And my favorite bookstore, coffee shop, and new friend Ian’s apartment were on the other side of Monson. The other side of town was only a short five-minute drive, but I wanted to stick to my plan and get back to Hobbit as quickly as I could.
Monson’s downtown was two streets long. There was still an old drugstore with a soda fountain on Main Street, along with a bar, a pool hall, two banks, and other small retail stores. First Street held an old one-auditorium movie theater, the town library, a store that still called itself the Five and Dime (though the items for sale were now ninety-nine cents), a couple of appliance stores, and the county courthouse/jail/sheriff’s office. I’d always thought the red-brick jail building was the prettiest building in town, but I’d never seen the inside of it. Until today.
As I went through the front double doors, I was reminded of the smells of a school building—some combination of linoleum floor cleaner, dust that would never be cleaned out of corners, and the greasy scent of a real cafeteria. At first sniff, I liked everything about it.
There was a buzz of activity all around. Everyone was working; everyone seemed to be moving at a pace that didn’t fit with living on a farm and being surrounded by crops instead of coworkers, but it wasn’t terrible.
“Can I help you?” a girl at the information desk asked as she timed noisy chews on her bubble gum in between words.
“I’m here to see Officer Brion,” I said.
“Back that way. He’s in the second office on the left. Sign in.” She pushed a clipboard forward, shot me an obligatory smile, and turned back to whatever she had been looking at on her computer screen.
I did as she instructed and then made my way to Sam’s office, the door of which had one word painted on it: Police.
I didn’t know if I should knock, so I didn’t.
The area reminded me of a 1970s cop show, the name of which I couldn’t remember. There were six desks filling the front open space and three glass-walled offices at the back of the room. Sam sat at one of the front desks, a phone propped at his ear and on his shoulder as he wrote notes. I noticed that he wrote with his left hand and he used a yellow number 2 pencil. All trace of the fun Sam, the one who wore colorful printed shirts, was gone.
I couldn’t hear his exact words through the hum of activity, but his face wasn’t pinched in concern.
“Ms. Robins,” Officer Norton said as she walked toward me. “Sam said you’d be by. Come on in and have a seat over there. Sam will be with you in a minute. Coffee?”
“Sure. Thanks.” I sat in a duct-taped-together vinyl chair that was next to a burping copier. A second later, Officer Norton was back with the coffee. I watched her biceps flex as she handed me the paper cup. Just to know what it felt like to be burly, the thought of attempting weight lifting ran through my mind. And then directly out of it.
“Thanks,” I said again.
“You’re welcome. You need anything else?”
“No, this is great.” I saluted her with the cup.
“Let me know if you do. I’ll be right over there. I’ve got some calls to make.”
I took a sip of the coffee as Officer Norton went back to her desk. It was the worst coffee I’d ever ta
sted, and I hoped no one saw my eyes tear up and my mouth turn downward at the bitterness. Conveniently, there was a small garbage can next to the copier.
There were four officers at their desks, each of them in a state of “busy.” There was only one person in the glass-walled offices. He was dressed in civilian clothes, and I’d never seen him before.
Who knew that Monson had enough crime to have so many officers? I was impressed.
Sam hung up his phone, looked at me, stood up, and walked my direction—all without one smile or one hair falling out of place. He was definitely in work mode.
“Becca,” he said as we shook hands.
“Sa . . . I mean Officer Brion.”
“The prisoner is in a back holding cell. I have clearance for you to visit him, but he’ll remain in his cell. You’ll have to sit outside of it. We have only one interview room, and we can’t use it for visitors.”
“I understand.”
“I’ll have to search you.”
“What?”
Finally, the corner of his mouth twitched. “I wanted to see your reaction.”
“My reaction is that I’m glad you broke form for a minute to make a joke, but if you tried to search me, I’d have to hurt you.”
Sam smiled, fully. “This way.”
He led us through a door I hadn’t noticed before but was next to one of the glass-walled offices. We went down a small hallway, passing what I thought was the interview room he had spoken about and some bathrooms.
“Did you talk to Barry or the Simonsens yet?” I asked.
“Not yet, but it’s in the works, boss.”
I laughed. “Thanks for the fake date, Sam. It was really fun.”
He turned and looked at me. “I had a great time. You work with some terrific people.”
“And potentially a murderer.”
“There is that.”
We went through another doorway and into a room that had three cagelike cells. Two of them were empty except for bare cots. Abner sat on the cot in the third one. He was hunched over, his head in his hands. He looked up as we entered and threw together a smile.
Farm Fresh Murder Page 19
