by Molly Macrae
The third paragraph was where I might have slipped into the realm of subjective reporting. It was my catalog of out-of-the-ordinary things I’d noticed since the shooting or remembered from just before it. Things that might have nothing to do with the shooting, but details it seemed important to include, especially since Geneva had pointed out that the story is in the details. It was the shortest paragraph, mentioning the Tent of Wonders staying up overnight, Dan Snapp’s dream to run a small engine repair shop, and Cole Dunbar’s statement that mistakes were made. That last was where I really did slip into subjective mode, but for all the work I’d put into this, I felt entitled. What mistakes were made, I wanted to know, and when and by whom?
Appropriately enough, there were a baker’s dozen of questions:
Can the police be right and was it just a careless actor?
Are all the actors and their movements accounted for?
Have the police located any witnesses?
Motive? Why did someone kill Reva Louise?
Was Reva Louise lured to that spot at that time and, if so, how?
Why did Reva Louise have J. Scott Prescott’s realty card?
Who planted the guns in the linen closet and when?
Was Reva Louise back to her old tricks—embezzling?
How can we find out about an insurance policy and who the beneficiary is?
Why didn’t J. Scott Prescott want anyone to know about the mercantile deal?
Why would Reva Louise’s death cause the deal to fall through?
Was it Dan who met Angie Cobb at the courthouse?
Where is Angie?
There were a few more questions than that, but they were questions I needed to ask individuals in private. Keeping them from the group might make a difference in how the investigation played out, but asking them in front of everybody else might make a difference, too, and the wrong kind of difference.
People were reading at different rates, as people do. Mel and Thea were each making use of their pencils, scribbling in the margins as they read. John had tucked his pencil behind his ear the way I remembered Granddaddy doing when he was working in his wood shop. Joe’s page was covered with doodles. Ardis stared at hers with pursed lips. Ernestine tapped her forehead as she read, maybe tamping the information in so it would stay. They were each concentrating in their own way.
They each startled in their own way when someone knocked on the back door.
Chapter 25
The knock, a sharp rap on the door’s glass, sounded more like a shot to my oversensitized nerves. I jumped, then froze. Ardis and Thea froze, too. Ernestine and John didn’t seem to think it was anything out of the ordinary. Cool Joe dabbed his mouth with his napkin and went to see who was there. It wasn’t until I saw him put his napkin down that I realized he’d been eating another piece of the bread pudding. Mel caught my aggrieved look.
“Special circumstance,” she said. “He’s the one who made it. And the salad and the pizza. He’s been here all day.”
All day. Cooking with Mel. I knew they were good friends. She was the one who’d taught him to knit. What had she said about the bread pudding? No voting because she was in love? But had she meant in love with the pudding?
“All day, huh?”
“It’s what the good guys do, Red. I’m suddenly down two staff. You know what that’s like for a busy small business. Joe’s helping out while Sally Ann’s on compassionate leave.”
She was right. And there was no need to be jealous. After all, Joe and I hadn’t even decided if we were dating and they’d known each other a lot longer.
Joe came back then, with Sally Ann.
“Oh, hey,” Mel said. “Come on in.”
Sally Ann hesitated at the door until Joe touched her elbow and repeated Mel’s invitation. She still wore the cargo pants, but she’d put on a light flannel shirt over the T-shirt. She stood with her hands sunk in her pockets, arms close to her body. John hopped off his stool and offered it to her. She didn’t take it.
“I saw the light,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay, Mel.” She turned to Joe. “When you said ‘some people,’ I thought you meant two or three. I don’t want to crash.”
“Not a bit,” Mel said. “Have you eaten?”
Sally Ann waved a plate away. “I promised Dan I’d stop by.”
“How is he doing, Sally Ann?” Ardis asked. “I’ve been meaning to get over there with a casserole. Come on and sit down, hon, and tell us.”
“Tell you what?” She looked and sounded uneasy.
“If there’s anything we can do to help,” Ernestine said.
“Arrangements we can help with?” John offered.
Neither suggestion made her look any easier, and I was glad when Mel came to her rescue by bringing her a piece of the bread pudding.
“It’ll do you good,” Mel said. “It’ll only fix things for about five minutes, but for those five you won’t have a care in the world.”
“Like that ever happens,” Sally Ann said. But she took the plate and hitched up onto John’s stool. “Sorry about missing work.”
“Not a problem.”
While Sally Ann picked at the edges of the pudding, Mel stood behind her and did her best to mime pretty much what I’d been thinking: Tell Sally Ann what we were doing. I glanced at the others, and although Ernestine hadn’t followed Mel’s subtleties, the rest nodded. But while it was handy that we were able to communicate without words, our silence didn’t help Sally Ann feel any more welcome.
“Gosh, don’t everyone talk at once,” she said with an uncomfortable laugh. “Ya’ll look like you’re at a prayer meeting. Trust me to create an awkward moment.”
“It’s not you, Sally Ann,” I said. “It’s just that we’re doing kind of a crazy thing.” I paused to think how best to say what it was that we were doing. Pausing after the phrase “crazy thing” wasn’t helping, though, so I plowed on. “We’re looking into Reva Louise’s death. And we could use your help.”
Trust me to make someone who’s already feeling awkward feel even more so. But was there really a gentler way of telling a bereaved woman a bunch of us were being nosy about her sister’s death? Besides, Sally Ann worked for Mel; she had to be used to brusque and blunt. And I was getting the feeling Sally Ann was the kind of person who accepted what came along. That she didn’t get too excited about anything one way or the other and she was always ready for the next splat of rain to hit her in the eye. Even that beautiful rhubarb bread pudding didn’t seem to be doing anything for her. She ate it, but I could see the disappointment on Joe’s face when she took the last bite with no show of emotion and put her empty plate on the butcher block without comment. The important thing was, she stayed and talked to us.
“You’re taking notes?” she asked, nodding at Thea’s fingers poised over my laptop.
“We’re serious,” I said, and held up my notebook.
“And we have a track record,” Ardis said.
“We might look like kooks and quack like kooks,” Thea said, “but we aren’t without skills.”
“I guess I heard something about that,” Sally Ann said, a note of skepticism or wariness in her voice. “About a group showing up the sheriff sometime back. That was you?”
“That depends on what you heard,” Mel said. “No time to rehash past glories, though. Red, let’s kick this shindig into gear so I can make someone do the dishes and kick you out. Sooner, not later.”
“Do you mind answering some questions, Sally Ann?” I asked.
“Depends on what I hear,” she said with a quick smile. “No. It’s okay. My answers might not be worth much, but I don’t see how it can hurt.”
Blunt, brusque Mel jumped in with the first one-two punch of a multipart question, proving that it could hurt. “Were Reva Louise and Dan getting along and did you know he was married before, to a currently unattached woman who lives here?”
“Is that what you’re doing?” Sally Ann asked. “Pinning this o
n Dan?”
“Mel, honey,” said Ardis. “Hush. Let Kath ask the questions. At least she hems and haws enough to soften them. And, Sally Ann, you need to understand that we’re fact-finding only at this point in the investigation. We aren’t attaching any more significance to one question or another, and you shouldn’t, either.” Sally Ann nodded and Ardis looked around at the rest. “Are we all agreed? Kath asks the questions. She does not mean to pry. Well, yes, she does, but not any more than necessary, and we are here to absorb and cogitate.”
“I love that word,” Thea said. “I’m bolding it in the notes.”
“Um,” I said, deciding I liked Ardis’ description of that as “softening.”
Sally Ann must have liked it, too. “Because, you know,” she said, “I don’t want you to think he did it, and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but they fought like frickin’ cats and dogs.”
That statement was what we needed to finally break the ice with Sally Ann. It was warm in the kitchen, and cozy in a way I wouldn’t have expected in a roomful of sharp knives and tools for whipping and beating and roasting ingredients into submission. It was Sally Ann’s workplace, too, though, and that probably helped. She relaxed enough to shrug out of the flannel shirt. Mel hung it on a peg beside the door. Sally Ann started by saying she appreciated what we were doing and ended by telling us that if she’d been asked to place odds, she would have bet on Reva Louise killing Dan before Dan would have gotten around to killing Reva Louise.
“I told you how she was all about potential, didn’t I?” she asked. “She saw a lot of it in Dan because he’s a dreamer. But dreamers don’t always live up to their potential. Doesn’t mean they’re worthless. But for someone like Reva Louise, with stars in her eyes—”
“And no compunctions,” Thea said. “Ooh, another good word.”
“Here’s another loaded question,” I said, “and I don’t know if you have any way of knowing this, but do you think there’s an insurance policy? And if there is one, is Dan the beneficiary? Or wait. How about this—with Reva Louise gone, is Dan in any way liable for what she still owed in restitution? Or is he free of that?”
“I don’t know about insurance,” Sally Ann said. “The way Reva Louise talked about him, it’s hard to believe he had the forethought for something like an insurance policy. But if she could’ve afforded it, I bet she would’ve insured him.”
“But what she would have done doesn’t get us anywhere,” Mel said. “She didn’t kill him.”
“Unless what she would have done would have sunk his potential even further,” Ernestine said. “What if she was planning to leave him? Or what if she threatened to? I’m remembering several angry phone calls during our last Fast and Furious. She certainly sounded threatening, and from what she said, I assume she was talking to her husband.”
“But does that make any sense?” Thea asked. “He didn’t want her to leave, so instead he killed her? Is he that twisted? Or that energetic? He sounds more like a lazy good old so-and-so. If he did anything, you’d think he’d wave good-bye and say good riddance. I read the reports and court documents online this afternoon. I dropped them in a subfile for you, Kath. It’s called ‘She was an Embezzler, for cripes’ sake.’ This woman might have been a sister of the fiberhood, but she had an impressive lack of moral fiber.”
“She also cheated at knitting hats for hospitalized babies,” Ernestine said with about as much censure as I’d ever heard her muster.
Ardis gave Mel a hard look. Tough Mel didn’t flinch. Sally Ann heard, saw, and began to crumple.
“I thought she’d straighten herself out,” she said. “You know, why shouldn’t she? She was lucky she didn’t do time. She had a chance to make good. I thought I was doing her a favor getting her a job. But that wasn’t enough for her, I guess.”
“It might help if we knew why she was doing these things,” I said. “You know her better than any of us, Sally Ann. Was she like this as a child?”
“Like what?” Sally Ann asked. “The center of the universe? Seems like she still is. You all are paying more attention to her now than you did when she was alive.”
John broke an uncomfortable silence. “Does Dan work?”
“Farm and Home,” said Joe. “Part-time.”
“What else does he do?”
“Fish,” Joe said. “Bait and bass. I tried to interest him in flies and trout a time or two.” And if Joe couldn’t raise a spark of interest for either in Dan Snapp, not a fly fisherman alive could.
“He isn’t such a bad guy.” Sally Ann said that so quietly I think only Mel and I, who were closest to her, heard. “You don’t know him.”
“I like the idea that he’s a dreamer, Sally Ann,” I said as quietly. “Did I hear right, that he wants to open a small engine repair business?”
“She wanted him to. Not that he’s against the idea. Just that, like she said, he needs a kick in the behind every now and then.”
“Do you think she’d given him a kick to get the business going? She had a real estate agent’s card in her pocket. Did she talk about renting or buying?”
Sally Ann didn’t answer. I wanted to know why she didn’t as much as I wanted to know what her answer would be, but her body language suggested she’d reached her limit, either of questions or emotional stamina. Her limit looked more believable than J. Scott Prescott’s limit of shock and utter exhaustion had. Or just more pitiful.
Mel rescued her again, jumping up and announcing it was time to wrap things up. She walked Sally Ann to the back door. Joe went with them, his hand at the small of Sally Ann’s back. I wondered what he was feeling. And for whom. And couldn’t help myself—I went to the kitchen door and watched as Mel, uncharacteristically demonstrative, gave Sally Ann a hug. Joe hung back watching, too.
“But we aren’t done yet, are we?” John asked.
I turned back to answer him and caught sight of Sally Ann’s flannel shirt hanging on the peg. “Sally Ann, wait. Your shirt.” Without thinking, I grabbed it and headed for the back door. Almost immediately the floor seemed to tip and I went with it, stumbling and smacking my shoulder against the bulletin board. I stayed there, leaned there, feeling out of breath. Feeling . . . the same confusion I’d felt after touching Reva Louise’s skirt . . . something sly, furtive . . .
“Hey.” Joe’s soft voice cut through the fog. “Are you all right? You’re looking puny, there. I hope it wasn’t something you ate.”
I blinked. How long had the café been out of focus? Not long. Mel and Sally Ann were still at the back door, only just turning toward me. Not long enough for anyone in the kitchen to notice. When had Joe noticed?
“Kath?” Joe touched my cheek. “I want to see your eyes. Look at me.”
I did look at him, not sure what he would see in them. The same confusion I’d felt? Something furtive? I’d been fine until I picked up the flannel shirt. My hands were empty. The shirt lay on the floor. I bent to pick it up but stopped.
“I’ll get it,” Joe said. “Sally Ann’s, right? Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
But by then I was fine and I needed to try something, to take a chance. Mel and Sally Ann had only just started back toward us. I followed Joe and heard them ask if I was okay.
“Sorry,” I said, trying to sound strong and confident. “Stood up too fast, I think. Sally Ann, thanks for coming.” I hesitated and then made myself put my hand on her shoulder. And hoped my face reflected the friendly words coming out of my mouth and not the little voice in my head screaming, “Aieeeeeee.”
Nothing. I felt nothing when I touched Sally Ann’s T-shirt. What was this? Why did it happen and what did any of it mean? Mel said something to me I didn’t catch. She shook her head and unlocked the door for Sally Ann.
“It’s her brain,” I heard her say. “It works overtime but seems to have intermittent communication with the rest of her.”
“I don’t suppose that matters much,” Sally Ann said. “Not if it’ll help her fi
gure out who did that to Reva Louise. Thanks for the time off. I won’t stay gone long.” She slipped the flannel shirt on and was on her way down the back steps into the alley when I called after her.
“Does that shirt belong to Reva Louise?”
Sally Ann stopped and looked down at herself and then up at me, puzzled. “No.”
“Oh.” I shrugged. Didn’t even consider explaining why I’d asked. Didn’t like the questions her answer raised. Were the “feelings” from Sally Ann and Reva Louise so much alike because they were sister? Or was Sally Ann really not such a straight shooter herself?
• • •
I ignored the two sets of eyes studying me as I headed back to the kitchen. If Mel and Joe came to any conclusions that would explain the last few minutes of my life, it was fine with me. I wanted to know, too.
Ardis looked up when I returned. She, Thea, and John were gathered around Ernestine and the laptop. Ernestine was perched on the stool again so she could peer directly at the screen.
“Mug shots,” Ardis said. “Thea’s brilliant idea.”
“Did you all hear?” Thea asked. “I’m brilliant. All of you please remember that.”
She’d done an image search that afternoon for the people on Ernestine’s and John’s lists, TGIF members, Blue Plum citizens in general, and people in “The Blue Plum Piglet War” specifically. Working from names mentioned in the tabloid, which led her to more names, Web sites, and social media sites, she was able to put together a slide show of people who were in town for the festival. Like a book of mug shots, there were numbers with each face or full-length photo, but no names. She’d included more than one picture of a person if it showed different angles or expressions, but these people didn’t necessarily appear in the slide show one after the other. They were writing down numbers when they recognized someone they’d seen around the time of the shooting.
