by Hannah Reed
After Lori left in a huff, some of our more agreeable customers wandered through. Stu from Stu’s Bar and Grill stopped in to pick up his newspaper, which had only just arrived. Usually they are here long before now.
Stu is such a hunk! He has the best bedroom eyes in the world.
“They’re betting Nova Campbell was murdered,” Stu said, sharing comments from his bar clientele. “Actually placing bets on who did it.”
“And?”
“Holly’s in the lead. People know that your sister didn’t like the dead woman. And I can see why, if what they say is true about her husband and his employee.”
“That rumor isn’t true,” I informed him. “If you’d met the dead woman when she was alive you’d see why Holly didn’t like her. I didn’t like her, either, right from the very beginning.”
Stu paused to scan the front page of our local newspaper, the Reporter, which I referred to as the Distorter for obvious reasons. For one, Patti worked for it and I knew how she operated. For another, the paper didn’t usually have anything worth reporting, so it tried to stir the pot by printing a lot of opinion pieces, which bordered on libel.
“She was pretty,” Stu said, holding up the paper so I could see the photograph of Nova Campbell right on the front page.
“Is that all you guys care about?”
“Pretty much.” And with that Stu was off, but not before he gave me a wink to let me know he was messing with me.
Milly stopped by to replenish her flower bouquets. I picked up a newspaper from the stack and showed her Nova’s picture. “I wonder where they got a photograph so quickly.”
“Driver’s license,” Milly said. “That’s what they usually do. That’s a good-looking photo. You should see mine. I look like a convict.”
“I was just about to read the article about her,” I said, noticing Patti’s name below the byline. I sighed before delving into the body of the piece.
Here’s what I read:
Nova Campbell died suddenly during a tour of a local honeybee apiary owned and operated by Story Fischer, who also owns The Wild Clover. Her store has been the gathering place for some of Moraine’s most speculative observations and innuendos, and this current tragedy has added fuel to the fire surrounding one of the oldest and certainly most colorful families in the area—the Fischers.
Is it possible Campbell’s death could be related to the environment she so innocently entered? Was she set upon by a swarm of killer bees? And what about the younger Fischer sister, Holly Paine (nee Fischer), who is married to mega-millionaire Max Paine, the deceased’s boss? According to several sources, the deceased’s relationship with this family member’s husband during Campbell’s brief visit to our usually quiet town of Moraine is under scrutiny.
Did jealousy drive Holly Fischer over the edge?
Or was a certain husband’s secret affair(s) in jeopardy of discovery?
And what about adding more flavoring to the suspect list in the form of two of Nova Campbell’s team members? Was someone eliminating the competition from within?
Or did Nova Campbell take her own life?
All this is pure speculation, of course, because two law enforcement agencies working side by side have failed to cooperate by answering questions the public deserves to know. Investigators working the case actually demanded a gag order pending more autopsy details, but intimidation can’t stop this reporter from giving you all the news, all the time.
Stay tuned as the “Story” develops.
“I’m going to kill her,” I said out loud, before realizing the stack of papers had attracted a small crowd. Some smart aleck in the back of the bunch wanted to know who it was I was planning to kill next, in a kidding sort of way (I think). Anyway, we sold out of papers within the next fifteen minutes. Some customers bought two, one for themselves, one for a friend.
“How could the paper’s editor run this garbage?” Carrie Ann said when she read the piece. “Isn’t there some kind of law against smearing your character in public?”
“Yes, there is. It’s called libel.”
I dug out my phone and called Hunter. Real life had intruded on our fairy-tale happiness.
Again.
Fifteen
Before noon, Sally Maylor had a warrant to bring Patti Dwyre into the police station for questioning. She asked Hunter for assistance. According to the acting chief, either Patti had made up a pack of nasty insinuations, or she knew something that needed to be shared. That hadn’t been exactly what I’d hoped for. The last thing I wanted was a thorough investigation into my family members’ lives. I’d really thought they’d just throw Patti in a jail cell and leave her there.
I spent my lunch break planted out in front of her house, wanting a ring-side seat as she was taken into police custody. I hoped for some graphic police brutality to go with my peanut butter and honey sandwich.
I was still flaming mad. Of all the nerve! Hadn’t I befriended that woman? Grudgingly, okay, but I’d made an effort way beyond what I had to. When she finally came into view now, it was all I could do not to rush over and throttle her.
“I’ll never reveal my sources,” Patti said from the top step of her porch right before Hunter and Sally steered her toward Sally’s squad car. “You can’t arrest me. I’m with the media. And besides, you’re hurting my arm. Ouchee.”
Hunter didn’t seem to hear her. I could tell he was angry, too, judging from the steam rising from his collar.
“Patti,” I called out. “When I get my hands on you, I’m going to hurt more than your arm!”
“Story, is that you? Help!” she said, too dense to realize we were on opposing sides this time. “Don’t let your boyfriend torture me,” then to him, “I’ll hold out until the bitter end. My lips are cemented shut.”
Speaking of cement, I wanted to bury her under six feet of it.
“You made a promise, Patti,” I said, getting close enough that only Sally and Hunter could hear. “Off the record, you promised, remember? And talk about embellishing!”
“I found another source,” she said, talking low, too. “Not you. Someone else came forward.”
So what did that mean? It was okay to break my confidence since someone else told her the same thing? That certainly sounded like Patti logic. As for the other source, I’d bet my best pair of flip-flops it was Lori Spandle.
Watching them drive off, I imagined a few effective torture techniques I’d like to use on Patti—boiling in oil, toilet dunking, de-nailing those stubs she calls fingernails. Not that she could ever give up any real information, because she didn’t have a real source. She’d made the entire thing up.
Within another two hours, the Reporter had issued a statement retracting the entire article, claiming a disgruntled employee had sabotaged the printing process, and ended by saying that said worker’s employment had been terminated effective immediately.
But the damage had been done. That one stupid article would have serious consequences.
In the meantime, business at the store had never been better. I’ve never seen so many customers run out of milk before.
I silenced my cell phone because it was ringing off the hook and caller ID told me there was only one determined caller—Mom, the last person I wanted to talk to. Hopefully, Holly was too busy with her remaining guests to read the paper or pay attention to incoming calls from Mom. The longer Holly didn’t know, the better.
One of Stu’s Bar and Grill regulars came in to let me know that Stu’s canoe and kayak rentals had gone way up since somebody at the bar suggested that gawkers could tour the actual location of the latest town crime scene.
That particular spot being the riverbank in my back-yard.
“Don’t you think everybody is being ridiculously outrageous?” I said at one point.
But people love drama. They don’t care if it’s true or not, and our small town in particular seems to thrive on digesting, regurgitating, and spewing the stuff back out.
Mid-aftern
oon, the twins arrived to take over for me, a very good thing, since I couldn’t take one more sideways glance or barely concealed outright stare. Pretending nothing is wrong when everything is going down the tube isn’t easy.
I took off for my street, and the one chance I might have to do a little digging of my own. And it wasn’t going to be in my backyard, even though I had ideas about where to place a Patti-sized shallow grave.
I wanted to creep around to the back, but one of the gawkers in a canoe happened to be passing as I peeked around. Instead, I decided to be bold.
I walked right in Patti’s front door.
Just the kind of luck I like (but don’t find too often), Patti had forgotten to lock up in all the excitement of her arrest.
Why, I asked myself, had my neighbor been in the river at the exact same time that Nova Campbell keeled over dead? And why was she hiding that fact, refusing to answer when I confronted her? Now she had gone out of her way to misdirect attention toward Holly and me, making us appear responsible for Nova’s murder when she knew we weren’t.
Patti Dwyre had to be after more than a killer story. And mad as I was at her, I knew she wasn’t a dummy, either; she had to realize what she’d written would put her in big trouble with her boss. And with the cops. And with me.
So she must’ve been operating out of desperation. I was going to find out why.
I’d been in Patti’s house before but never upstairs. Now I headed right up the steps, toward the room where she snooped with her telescope. She had a brand-new one, judging by the shininess of the scope and all the cardboard packaging scattered on the floor.
My neighbor is a true minimalist, nothing nonessential anywhere, which made my mission that much easier. Or it would have, if I knew exactly what my job here was or what I was looking for. But I told myself I’d know it when I saw it.
I took in the contents of the room—the telescope, the bare closet, unadorned walls, a few pieces of electronic equipment (a camera, video camera, high-powered binoculars)—all on the top of a desk.
Inside the desk, I found a stack of letters. They looked old; even the rubber band binding them together had seen better days. It broke when I tugged on it. The letters were all addressed to a Patricia Bruno at a Chicago, Illinois, address. And the return address came from the Southwestern Illinois Correctional Center.
“What are you doing?” I heard behind me. A voice out of nowhere. The letters went flying to the floor, scattering, while my heart skipped a row of very important beats.
I whipped around.
“Patti! What are you doing here?” I tried to look nonchalant, a failed attempt on my part due to the setting and circumstances.
She bent and gathered up the letters. “We should be real honest-to-goodness partners,” she said. “You’re better at snooping than you think.”
“Thanks,” I managed to mumble, wishing Hunter had had the foresight to inform me when they let Patti go.
“But you know too much,” she continued, moving closer, eyes narrowed, suggestion in her tone. “Now I’ll have to kill you.”
I’m sure all the blood drained out of my face.
Then Patti said brightly, “Just kidding. Boy, are you touchy.”
I started counting, sure that ten numbers (no matter how slowly I counted) weren’t going to help this time, they never did when it came to my neighbor. Maybe a thousand would work but even that was doubtful.
“Come downstairs,” she said, putting the letters back into the drawer. “And I’ll explain everything. This is all my fault. I underestimated your snoopiness.”
Look who was talking!
Just to be on the safe side, I made her go downstairs first.
“My married name was Patricia Bruno,” she said, plopping into a chair. “In that life, which seems like a bad dream, I made a big mistake and married a guy who wasn’t who I thought he was.”
Patti? Married? Wow! I never would have guessed.
“Okay,” I squeaked, sitting down, too, and clearing my voice before saying, “I can understand that.” The whole town knew that my ex-husband had turned out to be a creep and a total womanizer.
“Your jerk wasn’t in the same league as mine. The guy was older than me and he’d been in prison more than once, but I only found that out later. Which wasn’t the worst of it. The minute we were married he started mistreating me. You don’t need the details, but it was ugly. Right away, I’d had enough and tried to leave. He told me he’d kill me if I did.”
“That’s awful,” I said. “But obviously, you got away.”
“The next time he landed in jail, I made my escape. Divorced him, moved here.” Patti leaned forward in the chair. “You might have heard of him. His name is Harry Bruno.”
I actually had heard of the guy. “The Chicago mobster?”
“That’s the one.”
For the second time in a matter of minutes, I was speechless. First, when Patti had threatened to kill me. Now, after hearing that the woman sitting across from me had been married—and to the mob at that.
“Does he know where you are?” I asked, thinking he must not since he hadn’t killed Patti yet.
Patti gave me a weak grin. “I’m sure he does. He’s in organized crime. He can find anybody, eventually. Besides, we actually talk on the phone now and again. Anyway, I made sure I kept tabs on his actions when he got out of jail, and I got really lucky. Because he met somebody else right away and married her.”
“That must have been a relief,” I said.
“You bet it was.”
I felt for Patti. I really did. But she still had some explaining to do. “I’m really glad you confided in me,” I said, “but your personal problems don’t explain why you wrote that horrible article about my family. That doesn’t have anything to do with your past.”
“I’m so sorry that happened. I panicked,” she said, “and felt I had to divert attention away from myself. I wish I’d never followed you home yesterday and never went into the water to try to save Nova Campbell. If this gets out, I’ll be put away for life. Once you hear me out, you’ll understand.”
Oh, yeah, right. “This better be really good, because I’m totally out of patience with you.”
“Oh, it is good.” Patti sank back. “I was Harry Bruno’s first wife. Nova Campbell was his second.”
That hit me like a ton of bricks. I hadn’t seen it coming at all. I blurted without thinking, “So did you kill her?”
Patti jumped up, clearly upset. “See, even you think I did! What would everybody else say? The same thing. But I didn’t even know she was in town until I saw her in your backyard and recognized her from their wedding pictures I’d seen online. When she doubled over and fell into the water, I should have turned and run away.”
She had that right. She should have. “Instead you went to see if you could help.”
Patti nodded. “She was already stone-cold dead.”
“Okay,” I said. “This isn’t the end of the world. Just because you found her first, doesn’t mean you killed her.”
Patti snorted. “Yeah, right.”
Then I thought of something else. “Won’t Harry Bruno show up for retribution once he hears about her death? They might have been divorced, too, but from what I’ve heard these families protect their own.”
“What do you think this is, The Godfather? He hated the woman.”
“How do you know?”
“I told you, we still talk once in a while. He’s asked me to come back to him, but no way is that going to happen.” I saw worry cloud her face. “I hope he finds somebody else quickly again, because I don’t want him around here bothering me.”
“I just wish you hadn’t dragged my family through the mud.” I got up and headed for the door, not sure that her story and her point of view justified what she had done. Although I did feel a little sorry for her.
Patti’s whole situation haunted me as I walked down the street.
Unfortunately, when I got back t
o the store, a new rumor was making the circuit.
The carrot juice in Nova Campbell’s water bottle had been loaded with poison.
Sixteen
“Water hemlock,” Hunter said from a metal chair in the back room of my store. Ben and I were in the process of completing our standard greeting. Me, rubbing the top of his head. Him, giving me several warm love licks. Hunter and I had already greeted each other in a more traditional way, though my skin still tingled from his touch. “I don’t know how this news got out on the street so fast.”
The latest tidbit really was spreading faster than a flash flood.
“Water hemlock is common around these parts,” my man continued. “The stuff grows in wet open areas, along shorelines for example. It could be growing along the river behind your house for all we know.”
I noticed it was now “my” house, not “our” house.
“It’s the most toxic plant in the United States,” Hunter kept going. “Just rubbing up against it, getting any on your skin, can cause seizures or even death.”
If it grew around here and was that deadly, how could I have no idea what the plant even looked like? I needed to look up a picture of this killer plant and eradicate it from my property if I found any. Hunter waited while I used my computer to search for water hemlock. An image popped up of a tall delicate plant with wispy greenish white flowers in the shape of umbrellas.
“That’s it,” he said. “Like I said, poisoning can even occur through contact with your skin. Also, the plant has a hollow stem. Kids have been poisoned from blowing whistles with the reeds. That’s how deadly it is.”
“Geez,” I added, amazed that water hemlock had never been on my radar. Poison ivy, yes. Hemlock, never.
“And get this,” he said, “according to the ME, the plant smells just like a carrot! Probably tastes like one, too, although I’m not about to test that out.”
I cringed. Spiked carrot juice was the worst of all the available possibilities. How could this have happened?
“Please tell me the rumors about it being in her carrot juice are wrong,” I said. “That she really died from touching it, or from blowing on it, or something?”
