It's a Wonderful Knife

by Christine Wenger

  “I knew Liz, and she’d want the festivities to go on.”

  “Hal, what do you think about some of the stage mothers and fathers? Do you think that any of them are on Ty’s radar?”

  “Definitely. Especially some of the more vocal ones.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think any of the parents are killers.”

  Hal took a big bite of a ham sandwich. “As the investigation continues, there will be more suspects. The big project will be to figure out who disappeared from auditions long enough to sneak into the kitchen, get the knife, and off Liz.”

  “Yes. That would be difficult. The window of opportunity isn’t that big. I think that I was only gone for ten minutes or so. It would have been shorter, but I had to wait a bit, and I had to crutch back and forth.” I hated to point a finger at Margie Grace again, so I kept my mouth shut this time.

  Antoinette Chloe joined us. “How have you been, Hal?”

  “Busy.”

  Knowing Hal, he’d start all over again, so I gave ACB an eye. She got the hint.

  “Where’s Joan?” ACB asked.

  Joan Paris was Hal’s girlfriend. They lived together over the Happy Repose, and Joan was a good friend of mine.

  Hal took a long draw of punch. “Joan’s busy getting tomorrow’s edition of the Lure out. She’s doing a minibiography of Liz, but it’s been difficult for her to write because Liz didn’t have any relatives.”

  Pastor Fritz and Darlene walked by the table, and ACB motioned for them to join us. Another man was with them, whom I didn’t recognize. He shot us a side glance and kept on walking.

  “Your friend can join us, too,” I said, pointing to his departing form.

  “He’s not very social,” Darlene said.

  “Who is he?” ACB said. “I don’t recognize him.”

  “The church’s maintenance man,” Pastor Fritz said. “He’s fairly new.”

  “Oh. That’s nice. Is he from around here?” ACB pushed.

  “No,” Darlene said. “He’s from the west.”

  “He must have known Liz,” I said, “since they both worked at the church.”

  Darlene’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. I believe they knew each other.”

  ACB pulled on Darlene’s sleeve. “Darlene, are you going to hire anyone to take Liz’s place? You still must need office help.”

  What was Antoinette Chloe up to?

  “We don’t need any office help,” Darlene snapped.

  Whew! What was that about?

  “We probably don’t,” Pastor Fritz said. “Darlene can finish what Liz was working on. It’ll save us some money.”

  My heart was pounding. I was about to get in even more over my head. “But, Pastor Fritz, I can volunteer to work in the office free of charge. I have a lot of help for my catering business, and I have some free time. I can assist the church. And if I say so myself, I’m not all that bad with computers.”

  Actually, I am hideous with computers, and I’m lying to a pastor!

  Darlene raised an eyebrow. “It’s not necessary, Trixie.”

  “You said so in the eulogy that what Liz had started might grind to a halt. We can’t let her work go unfinished, can we?”

  Darlene’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Pastor Fritz had a tight smile on his face, and his Adam’s apple was working overtime.

  “Thank you.” Pastor Fritz shook his head. “That’s not necessary, Trixie. Your aunt is here. You must want to visit with her.”

  “Oh, I insist,” I said. “It’ll be my Christmas present to you.”

  Pastor Fritz clasped his hands together. “I am speechless.”

  “That’s a first, my husband.” Darlene laughed. “When do you want to start, Trixie?”

  I felt as though I might as well jump right in. The sooner I could check out Liz’s work computer and look for a flash drive, the sooner I could quit.

  “Tomorrow.”

  Chapter 8

  Antoinette Chloe dropped me off at the church’s office and helped me up the five stone steps that led to a set of double doors.

  She opened them for me, told me that she was meeting Judge Glennie for breakfast, and quickly flip-flopped away.

  “Hello?” I said. “Anyone here?”

  I heard steps echoing from a long marble hallway, coming closer. “Good morning, Trixie. You’re right on time.”

  Darlene Robinson opened a glass door for me, turned on the lights, pointed to a dark wood desk, and quickly left.

  “I’ll be back later to show you what to do. I have a group session with the Teen Talkers,” she said.

  I was sitting at what used to be Liz’s desk. I knew it was hers because there was a picture of her with the Robinsons, along with a picture of her getting some kind of plaque.

  Poor Liz. She looked so happy in both pictures.

  The look on her face made me even more determined to find her killer.

  The plaque depicted in the picture was hanging on the wall. I read, “‘Elizabeth Anne Fellows. For service to the Sandy Harbor Literacy Initiative. Volunteer of the Year. 2014.’”

  That was very nice.

  But if she didn’t have any relatives, who would get all of her things? Little things, such as this award and picture. Big things, such as her house. Another big thing was her car. When ACB had dropped me off that morning, I’d noticed that Liz’s light green Honda Civic was still in the parking lot behind the church.

  I returned her picture to where she had placed it on the desk. I was in a sunporch type of place, and there was film on the window where I could look out, but no one could see in.

  There was a similar desk opposite me. I think it was Darlene’s because shopping bags and boxes were heaped all over it. There were piles of mail—which looked mostly like bills—doing a landslide on her desk. I went over to tidy the piles before they hit the ground. They were all bills. And there was a big checkbook, the kind with four checks on one page and set up for duplicates. I flipped it open and looked at the last date. Darlene hadn’t written a check in more than a month!

  Why not?

  Each desk had a computer approximately the size of a corn silo on it. I’d have to move my chair around it to see any visitors.

  Liz’s personal laptop was state-of-the-art, and Ty had come over to the Big House, snatched it, and taken it home last night.

  That was just after the Busy Boca Babes fussed all over him for an hour.

  But back to me at the church office.

  I should explain that the Community Church looks more like an office building than a church. It used to be the local cable office until they moved to Oswego. But it was enormous, and no matter how churchy everyone tried to make it, it was still a tomb of a building.

  Darlene would be gone an hour with the Teen Talkers. She had twelve girls, she’d told me before, and they met every Sunday morning.

  It was obvious that Darlene loved heading this group. She said that they kept her young, and that she could show them a thing or two about living.

  I wondered what she meant by that.

  I took a stroll down the hallway to the ladies’ room. On the way, I peeked through the kitchen window on the left. Everything was dark and quiet. My eyes traveled to the place where I’d found Liz’s body, and goose bumps made an appearance on my arms. I said a quick prayer for her.

  Right across from the kitchen was the church. That was mostly dark, except for some strategically placed lights, giving those who wanted to pray or just a quiet place to think, some privacy.

  I came to the bathrooms and the meeting room where Darlene was leading her teen group. Chairs were arranged in a circle, and there was an animated discussion in progress. I could hear Darlene’s armful of bangle bracelets tinkling from there.

  Pastor Fritz’s office was on the right. He was on the phone a
nd had a desk piled high with papers and ledgers. I waved through the window, but he didn’t seem to notice me.

  I crutched back to the office and caught the less than delightful maintenance person rifling through Liz’s desk. All the drawers were open, and he was mumbling. His head snapped up when he heard me clear my throat, and I swear his top lip curled. He slammed all the drawers shut. Sheesh.

  “Uh . . . and you are?” I didn’t know his name.

  “Roger,” he snapped.

  Oh! He was the infamous Roger! I remembered hearing his name mentioned on Liz’s answering machine by Pastor Fritz. What had the pastor said? Something about how he didn’t want Liz to mention their potential meeting to Roger or Darlene.

  I wondered whether the meeting had ever transpired and what the reason was for the secrecy.

  “Nice to meet you, Roger,” I finally said, trying to be friendlier than I felt toward this guy. “We’ll be working together here.”

  No answer, but he was well on his way out.

  That went well!

  I made a pot of coffee and turned on Liz’s computer. It asked for a username and password. I played with guessing some combinations, but no luck.

  Unless Liz had her password and username written somewhere, I didn’t have a chance to get in. Hmm . . . I could always use Darlene’s. I’d ask her later.

  I took the opportunity of being alone to look through Liz’s desk and files. I saw that there was a small index-card-size cassette player, complete with earbuds. That had to be ancient, although when I pushed the Play button, the wheels turned. I absently wondered why on earth Liz might have needed a cassette player. But I couldn’t think of anything, so I pushed it to the back of my mind.

  There was nothing else exciting in the least, although I didn’t exactly know what I was looking for.

  I looked through a folder marked QUARTERLY RAFFLE REPORTS. I wondered why there wasn’t anything in the folder. There was nothing in BINGO RECEIPTS AND DISBURSEMENTS either, and nothing in a dozen others.

  Remembering that Liz had been working on getting things computerized, I decided that the papers must be somewhere else.

  I made a note on a small notepad to ask Darlene or Reverend Fritz to give me a list of things to do. I had to keep myself busy, or I’d go crazy with boredom.

  The phone rang. “Sandy Harbor Community Church. Trixie Matkowski speaking.”

  “Trixie, it’s Antoinette Chloe. How’s it going there? Find anything?”

  “Nope. Just a lot of empty folders. I went through Liz’s desk. There’s no hate mail that I can find; there are no hideous messages on the answering machine. Her desk is a study in efficiency and organization.”

  “How about a personal phone book?”

  “She has one. There are some numbers with the Buffalo area code. I’ll make a copy of it. We can both look at it together later tonight. Maybe we can check out who Liz had been calling.”

  Looking out at the sidewalk, I saw—

  “Oh, crap, Antoinette Chloe, it’s Ty! Ty’s here.”

  “I was calling to warn you.”

  “What’s he doing here? Does he know that I’m volunteering?” My mouth went dry, and I gulped down some coffee.

  “He has an appointment with Pastor Fritz and Darlene. And no, he doesn’t know you’re working there—not yet anyway.”

  “He’ll find out in less than five seconds. Gotta go.”

  I dove under the desk before I realized that both my cast and I wouldn’t fit.

  Ouch. That hurt.

  “Hello?” he said.

  I tried to disguise my voice, but my British accent left a lot to be desired. Downton Abbey wouldn’t even put me to work cleaning the stables.

  “Uh . . . um . . . take a seat in Pastor Fritz’s parlor, sir. It’s down the hall to the left. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  “Miss, are you okay? Wait just a minute! Trixie? Trixie Matkowski, is that you?”

  “No. Uh . . . my name is Marilyn. Marilyn . . . um . . .” I spotted a box of bond paper in the corner of the room. “Marilyn Bond.”

  I could see his wet boots in front of me tucked into navy blue cargo pants. He bent over and stared.

  His face was hard to read. Maybe amusement and . . . annoyance?

  “Well, Marilyn Bond, fancy meeting you here. Would you like some help getting up?”

  I struggled to stand, but all that did was hike up my skirt to my cellulite zone. Yanking it down, I mumbled a humble “Yes.”

  It took a while, and some grunting from both of us, but eventually I was returned to Liz’s chair.

  “Ty, before you get cranky, I volunteered to help out here as my Christmas present to the Robinsons. With all the elves that arrived with Aunt Stella, and since I can’t stand, I might as well make myself useful here.”

  That was half-true.

  He raised a perfect black eyebrow. “I was under the impression that Pastor Fritz and Darlene didn’t want any help. Darlene said she could finish what Liz started by herself.”

  “I guess they changed their minds when I told them that I’d do it for free. You know, my Christmas present to them,” I repeated, hoping that he’d go for the Christmas-present angle.

  “Why don’t I trust you?” he asked.

  “Because it’s the nature of your job?”

  “Maybe. And right now my gut is telling me that you’re up to something again.”

  “Ty, really! What trouble can I get into sitting in this office?”

  “You’ll think of something. And by the way, don’t even think of touching either computer. I’m taking them with me.”

  Shoot.

  “Do the Robinsons know you’re taking their computers?”

  “That’s one of the things I’ll be discussing with them.”

  “I think that Darlene is in a group meeting with teenage girls, but she should be done soon.”

  “Tell her to meet me in the—what did the British Marilyn Bond call it?—oh, yes, the parlor. Do you have any relation to Bond, James Bond? And, I say, old girl, would you mind being a love and ringing for tea?”

  I made a face at him. Juvenile, I knew, but he deserved no less.

  “Ty?” I said seriously. I did want to ask him a question, but I didn’t know if he’d tell me the answer.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s something that I’d like to share with you.”

  “Should I sit down for this?” he asked, his bright blue eyes looking right through me.

  “No. It’s just . . . something. Or should I say someone?”

  He placed the palms of his hands on the desk and leaned toward me. “I’m listening.”

  “It’s the maintenance man for the grounds. His name is Roger. He’s not the friendliest guy in town. I saw him last night and a bit this morning, rifling through Liz’s desk. And he worked with Liz, so he might have information.”

  “And?”

  “They must have known each other.”

  He nodded. “His name is Roger Southwick. And just because he doesn’t chitchat over coffee and hand pies like you and Antoinette Chloe doesn’t mean he’s a killer.”

  “Does he have a record?” I asked.

  “Now, that, my dear Miss Bond, is none of your business.”

  “Go to h—” No. I wasn’t going to say it. “Go to . . . the parlor!”

  “Remember, don’t touch those computers.”

  “Anything worth finding out has probably been wiped clean already,” I snapped.

  “We have our ways,” he said, making like he was twirling a moustache. Then he turned, disappeared down the hall, and I could breathe easily once again.

  • • •

  Immediately, I called Antoinette Chloe. “We need to find out about Roger Southwick, the maintenance guy. I just have an eerie
feeling about him. He was going through Liz’s desk this morning, and I think he’s up to something.”

  “Take a picture of him, and I’ll ask around when I go to church at St. Luke’s. Someone there might know him, and be willing to talk.”

  “You want me to take a picture of Mr. Congeniality?”

  The thought had entered my mind, but I wanted to live to pay off the point.

  “Just do it with your cell phone. Make like you’re talking on it or something.”

  “Okay. I’ll do it.” I took a deep breath. “What’s going on with the Boca Babes?” The noise was unbearable that morning, and I had been hoping for some quiet time just to think. “Are they busy?”

  “They’re all in the kitchen at the Big House making appetizers for tonight. Then they’re moving on to Christmas cookies. Juanita took over the rum cake assignment since you’re volunteering at the church. Then they are prepping for the fiftieth anniversary party and the library event. They’re rocking and rolling, Trixie!”

  “The Babes are a miracle, and I appreciate each and every one of them. But I have to ask you something, Antoinette Chloe. Have you noticed anything going on between Bob and Aunt Stella?”

  “No, but I’ll try to keep my eyes open. It’s hard because I bought this new mascara called Lucky in Vegas, and with my false eyelashes, it’s sticking like glue. I can’t seem to keep my eyes open, and I—”

  “Antoinette Chloe, I gotta go. Roger Southwick is shoveling the sidewalk; maybe I can get a picture.”

  “Okay. See ya later. I’m picking you up.”

  I dug out my cell phone and crutched over to the window, trying to get a good picture of his face.

  It was impossible with the hood from his coat tied under his chin and reflective sunglasses on.

  Yikes! He was staring back at me. He tossed the shovel into a snowbank and stomped up the walkway, swung the door open, and appeared in front of me.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked standing way too close to me as I hobbled back to my seat.

  “Just taking a picture of the snow,” I said.