Alex elected to remain at home and start hunting up info on Doc Marley. After a look at the sky and the promise of more rain, I agreed that Blue should stay with him. They love Blue at the inn, but there is no denying that her feet can get a little muddy, and I wasn’t certain where else the day might take me.
The Chief called shortly after I left to let me know that there had been a break-in at the dental office. Some kind of chisel had been used to carve out the door around the lock. No damage had been done to the computer or any of the files, but someone had gone on a rampage and smashed several sets of dentures in the workroom. The same style of dentures, as far as the Chief could tell, as the ones that had been inserted into Doc’s pumpkin.
I suggested to the Chief that he call Dad and have him take a look at the door. Dad does a lot of woodworking and knows his chisels and saws. There was also a chance that after that kind of abuse, the suspect might well decide that he needed to sharpen his tools; and my dad, while also the mayor, happened to have the only knife and chisel sharpening business in the county.
I also suggested that Mr. Jackman and I should stop by the dental office as soon as we left the inn as he is also a woodworker. The Chief grunted assent. He was getting to know the people in our town. Though maybe there was some evidence suggestive of Mr. Jackman’s involvement in the murder, because of his pumpkin being chosen as a weapon, Randy also knew that it was unlikely that Lawrence Jackman would kill anyone and that after my dad, Mr. Jackman was the most likely person to be able to identify which kind of chisel was used on the door. As for us being at the crime scene, the Chief knew I wouldn’t let Mr. Jackman do anything to mess it up and Randy wanted me to have a look at the office anyway. Chances were slim that it would tell me anything that the Chief didn’t already know from looking it over himself, but slim chances have paid off before and the Chief, being a gambling man, is okay with longshots.
Then I had another brainwave. Knowing it was risky, but deciding to take a page from the Chief’s book on longshots, I called Mrs. Graves.
“Chloe, what’s wrong?” Mrs. Graves isn’t psychic. She has caller ID and it was a little early for social calls.
“There’s been a murder at the fairgrounds. Doc Marley is dead and the killer used Mr. Jackman’s pumpkin to crush him to death.” I heard Mrs. Graves’ shocked gasp and knew it wasn’t for the dentist. “Mr. Jackman and I are on our way to the Morningside Inn where the other contestants and the judges are staying. The Chief says he is going to try and clear the scene so we can go on with the carving this afternoon or tomorrow. I think he’s doing it so people don’t leave town. He thinks the murderer may be among the contestants.”
The thought that this was why the Chief was hurrying the investigation had just occurred to me. It wasn’t because he wanted to preserve a town tradition. It was just that interviewing suspects would be harder once they scattered. It made sense to keep them in place for as long as possible. The carving competition was a tool.
“Oh dear! Is it possible one of the competitors is involved?”
I didn’t think so but decided not to say anything. My feelings were based on emotion, not evidence.
“It would help a lot if you could get ahold of the ladies in the garden club and explain what has happened, and ask how many have flexible enough schedules that they can come man the kitchen on short notice if the contest goes on either tonight or tomorrow.”
“Of course. This is a big fund raiser for the club, and most of us are retired. There shouldn’t be a problem.” Mrs. Graves cleared her throat. “You didn’t call your mother?”
I could have and normally would have, but I wanted to give Mrs. Graves an excuse to see Mr. Jackman.
“No. Mom doesn’t approve of my… helping in these matters,” I said finally. “And Mom wouldn’t be willing to…”
“Question people?” Mrs. Graves asked shrewdly.
“Right. Not her friends anyway.” Sometimes it is as inconvenient dealing with people who have too many scruples as ones who have too few. Especially when they are your mom. “And I don’t want my aunt and Althea involved just yet. Whoever did this, they broke into the Doc’s office and stole a pair of his dentures, which they put in his pumpkin—the one he was going to use for the carving. While he was kneeling in front of his vandalized pumpkin, they rolled Mr. Jackman’s Atlantic Giant onto him.” I told her this detail because I knew Mrs. Graves would be discreet.
“That’s awful. The pumpkin was huge.” Big enough to crush Doc Marley. I didn’t say this either. “Does this mean a woman couldn’t have done it?”
“It’s less likely. I don’t think you or I could have moved Mr. Jackman’s pumpkin, but a stronger woman could have.” Like Trixie Harris or Cousin Althea? “All they needed to do was roll it to the ramp, after that it was a straight shot at where Doc was kneeling.”
Mrs. Graves was silent, wrestling with herself. She isn’t given to idle gossip.
“I don’t know if this helps. But there was talk at the senior center that some of Doc’s patients were going to sue him because of their look-alike dentures. A lot of them were having real pain. Their false teeth didn’t fit right at all. Poor Mrs. Harrington, already stuck in that wheelchair, and now she has mouth ulcers on top of that. Not to speak ill of the dead, but the man had become a disgrace to his profession.”
It was my turn to sigh.
“I know.”
“There was another rumor—and this one is really out there,” Mrs. Graves warned.
“Go on,” I encouraged. “Sometimes there is a grain of truth in even the craziest story.”
“Someone said that the doc occasionally baked cookies that had…”
“Controlled substances in them?” I suggested.
“Yes. Maybe this was about drugs?” she suggested.
“I’ll look into it, but I doubt it’s true. Baking can destroy a lot of prescription drugs and I don’t see him being a reefer head.” But I could see him maybe helping himself to some laughing gas or a bit of Vicodin while in the office. Did this matter? “Mr. Jackman is helping me with the investigation. The murderer used some kind of chisel to break into the office, and the Chief wants him to take a look and see if he can tell which kind of tool was used.” I added this so she wouldn’t feel slighted. Mrs. Graves writes mysteries and feels that the Chief is underutilizing her. “Alex is covering the money angle.”
“I also heard there was a girlfriend.” Mrs. Graves sniffed. “A younger woman with expensive tastes.”
“That’s what I’ve heard too. We’re looking for a name. Anyhow, if you dig up anything else you can call Alex or me, but if we have our phones off or are out of range, it’s okay to leave word with Mr. Jackman. Or the Chief, of course,” I added conscientiously, in case she found out something genuinely urgent from one of the garden club members.
“Very well. I should call Larry anyway and commiserate. He must be very upset. His pumpkin was beautiful.”
“Yes, she was,” I agreed, feeling happy that there was a chance at détente between my friends.
“What does Althea say about all this?” Mrs. Graves asked.
“We haven’t spoken yet.” I’d rather get a bikini wax than talk to Althea again so soon. The Chief—heck, probably everyone—feels the same. Althea tends to see events only in terms of how they affect her. “I think it might be best if the actual police handle her questioning. She’s less likely to refuse to answer if it’s official.”
“Would she refuse to answer you?” Mrs. Graves sounded surprised. “But why?”
I thought about it. Althea is kind of a poster child for sins of virtue. Maybe not lust so much, but she is greedy, prideful, envious, slothful, wrathful, and gluttonous. And rude—though that last one didn’t make the Top Seven List. And I have pointed this out on more than one occasion, which has—as expected—made her angry with me.
But surely she would want her boss’s killer found. And, though she doesn’t like me much, she had to know that I was
the best one to find out who the killer was.
And she belongs to a lot of groups. Like my mom and Aunt Dorothy, Althea likes to do things in assemblages. There are no spontaneous solo luncheons at the mall for Althea or my mom. No quiet, lonely meditation at dawn in the park. Me? I’m not so much of a joiner. I have to force myself into organized social activity like my writers’ group. You would think after years in the police department that I would be more of a team player, but I have been marginalized for so long that I became a lone wolf. Growing pumpkins, and getting together with other gardeners to weigh them once a year, is more my kind of group activity.
Still, there are times when being hooked into the women’s social network is handy, and unlike Mom, Althea loves to gossip about everyone.
“I’ll talk to her after Lawrence Bryce says he is done with her,” I promised. “For all the good it will do.”
We said our goodbyes and then I headed for the Morningside Inn.
When scientists speak of singularities, they mean something very specific. Likewise sociologists. For instance, a societal singularity might be the invention of the printing press, or the creation of the automobile, or nuclear weapons. But towns have singularities too, times of change, of cultural revolution. Or disintegration. Like when Hope Falls went from a mining economy to logging, when women got the right to vote, and when we had our first murder. And then a second. The killers had been people from out of town for the most part, transplants that brought their evil with them. But it seemed that that first murder had changed something in our community, had opened a gate somewhere and let the badness out, where it worked its will on the weak among us. I think we now have some kind of wound in our psyche and it is drawing in the predators, possibly creating a killing field.
I just wished that I could think of a way to bind it up, to stop the terrible thing that was happening to our little town. But so far I had nothing. I couldn’t change history, and my subconscious, which usually uses more carrots than sticks, was coming up empty of inspiration.
Pines and cedars do not lose their leaves and needles in the fall; but looking out the window at the dark green forest that surrounds our town, I had the feeling that it had already gone to sleep and I wondered if we were in for a long, dark, lifeless winter.
Some of my unpleasant mood left as I approached the inn. It’s a lovely old building even unadorned for holidays, but the long wraparound porch had a gorgeous display of autumn gourds and Indian corn, and a spray of bright gold leaves had been hung on the door in place of a wreath.
Mr. Jackman and the other competitors were in the front parlor. I just followed the familiar voices to the set of open pocket doors. I was glad to see a fire in the hearth and a vacant seat nearby. Though the inn was hardly cold, I think that we all needed both the physical and psychological comfort of the flames.
Conversation broke off as I entered and they all looked at me expectantly.
“No definite news, but the Chief wants the contest to go on. So let’s plan on being able to go ahead with things,” I said, taking a seat on the horsehair sofa. Mr. Jackman poured me a cup of tea from an antique silver pot and I took it with a smile.
“First of all, I’m thinking that if the contest does go on that we should probably hold a moment of silence. Doc Marley lived here for a long time and it would be respectful of the community who will still come to see the competition.”
There was a general murmur of agreement, though I noticed some who delayed a few seconds, including one of the judges, Casey White. He was a sculptor and the one judging the carving part of the competition. His lips were pinched tight and he contented himself with an upward jerk of his head. I wondered if it was to hide his big teeth. Or maybe the oversized dentures were just hurting him too much for sociability.
“I thought that maybe some of us who knew Doc would like to say a few words. Not at the contest, we don’t need to mention anything about this horrible event in front of the children, but now. If anyone would like to.”
The silence was deafening. I guess they had all been raised by mothers who subscribed to the if-you-can’t-say-something-nice-don’t-say-anything-at-all school of thought. No one was going to get up and denounce Doc Marley as a quack and admit to killing him. Well, I hadn’t expected that it would be that easy to get them talking.
“Okay then. Is there anyone who can’t stay an additional day if the contest gets moved to Halloween morning?” So I could call the Chief and have someone out there to give them the third degree before they left town. I didn’t say that part out loud, of course.
“We were just talking about this,” Mr. Jackman said. “I think everyone can stay. Most of us planned on an additional day anyway because of wanting to participate in the other Halloween celebrations.”
Right. I had kind of forgotten the other celebrations.
“Good. I’ve been on to the garden club and they will have the kitchen open, so there will be food and drink for us and any visitors.”
“It sounds like we’re set then. The inn is providing pumpkins for anyone who would like to test out a design.” Usually Mr. Jackman wouldn’t hurry things along that way, but I guessed he had decided we weren’t going to gain anything more by talking to the competitors as a group. I bowed to his feelings.
“That is awfully nice of them,” I said and got more nods of agreement. These out-of-towners were not a gabby bunch. “Well, I must be off. I’ll call the inn or stop in as soon as I have a time for the contest, and I’m so glad that everyone can stay.”
“We all want to,” Maurice Snowden said, speaking for the first time. He is a big, silver-haired man, roughly the size and shape of a polar bear with an expressionless face designed to absorb life’s slings and arrows with no sign of impact. “No way are we going to back out of this competition. I’m here to prove I’m the best with a knife and no killer is gonna stop me.”
“Hear, hear,” I said, getting to my feet. Maybe I did have a rival other than Mr. Jackman. “Victory would be hollow if we weren’t all here, giving it our best shot.” I heard myself chuckle. “And, fair warning, I plan on beating the pants off all of you.”
There was sudden shocked laughter from Thaddeus Brookes and then some hooting and catcalls from the others who took up the thrown gauntlet. Mr. Jackman and I left the room with the gloom dispelled.
“That was smart, Chloe,” Mr. Jackman said when we got to the parking lot.
I shrugged and tugged my collar up higher. The wind seemed especially cold. I hoped we wouldn’t get snow. It is rare to have snow in October, but it has happened.
“If their blood is up, they are less likely to get frustrated with the wait and leave,” I said.
“You really think one of them killed Doc?” he asked softly as we walked down the porch stairs.
“Not really. But that may be because I don’t want to think it. After all, I know these people.” I exhaled and made an admission to my friend. “Mr. Jackman, I can’t deny that I have a blind spot for the people I care about. And I am also not as focused on this investigation as I ought to be because of the competition. Knowing that, we have to double-check everything I do. And you need to tell me if I seem off task.”
Mr. Jackman nodded, looking faintly surprised.
“So, on to Doc’s office?” he suggested.
Usually I am keen on investigations, but not this time. I didn’t want to go to Doc’s place at all.
“Yep. That’s our next stop.” I tried for a tone of enthusiasm and only partially succeeded. Half of me wanted to solve this mess as quickly as possible. The rest of me wanted to pretend that it had never happened.
You see, catching a killer and achieving “justice” doesn’t really help all that much. Yes, it puts them in jail so they don’t kill again, and that is an undeniable plus for society. Also, they get some psychological help. But this doesn’t bring back the victim or mitigate the family’s sorrow. You can’t truly make reparations to the dead.
And I don’t bel
ieve that rehabilitation in prison—or anywhere else—is really possible. The thing about killers, the ones I’ve dealt with, is that under the human skin that covers them, they have the morals of bacteria. They are smarter than a single-cell organism, but that only makes them more opportunistic and able to avoid detection. And, after the fact, I am always shocked that no one—especially me—saw the murder coming. How great a detective could I be if I couldn’t see this flaw in the people who live near me?
Chapter 5
Doc’s office is in a restored Victorian that has fallen behind on the needed primp and polish that makes an old house charming rather than depressing or spooky. The gardens have gotten a bit feral as well. In fact, if one is fanciful—and it was almost Halloween so I was thinking a bit of haunts and ghouls—it looks like the kind of house that has a ghost in its rat-infested basement and an insane relative chained in its bat-infested attic.
Not that there actually were any insane relatives in the attic. We would know. Dysfunctional families are still, thank heavens, rare enough in our town to merit comment. Everyone would know if there were a psychopath living in Doc’s house.
Of course, since there aren’t enough genuine oddballs to satisfy the gossips, the neighbors often have to invent things and exaggerate small mishaps, missteps, and mistakes. Most of these stories can be dismissed out of hand, but some contain a kernel of truth and that is why I occasionally listen to my cousin when she blathers her malicious stories.
“Bushes need trimming. Windows are dirty too,” Mr. Jackman said, proving I wasn’t the only one to notice the air of neglect. Were these signs of laziness in the Doc, who was too busy chasing skirts to care about his practice? Or were they the natural companion of depression that follows a loved one’s death? What mattered the lawn when your wife was dead?
The Great Pumpkin Caper Page 4
