by Molly Macrae
“This is certainly the most interesting Handmade Blue Plum we’ve been to,” Ellen said.
“Not very small-town friendly, though,” Ernestine said. “I am so sorry we haven’t shown you our better side.” Her eyes didn’t look sorry; they looked ready to catch round two of the Rogalla-Dunbar match.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Janet said. “You know what they say about bad publicity. The crafts this year are top-notch. We’ll be coming back.”
“You didn’t happen to see how the fight started, did you?” Mel asked.
They hadn’t. But they’d been struck by how much the scuffle reminded them of middle school boys.
“Posturing,” Ellen said. “A lot of blowing and not so many blows. I teach eighth-grade science and I see it too often. Circling each other like dogs with their hackles raised.”
“These two ‘boys’ each got in a couple of good pops, though,” Janet said. “Are you ready, Ellen?” They waved again and rolled their bags out the door.
“Where’s Cole now?” I asked Joe. “And who’s watching your booth?”
“Cole’s in a classroom cooling off. Al’s in another. Zach’s got the booth, and I’d better get back there.”
“Here comes Darla,” said John.
* * *
Darla, bless the heart she wore on her sleeve, said we could go in and talk to Clod; he wasn’t under arrest. John and Mel thought it would be good if they talked to Al, but Darla said he’d already left. Neither of them was hurt beyond bruised ribs and knuckles—not having aimed at noses, which I knew to be a very satisfying target—and neither intended to press charges. Al apparently hadn’t minded running a potential gauntlet of stares to leave the building.
“Go stuff—a mushroom,” Clod said to Mel when she asked him why he was hiding in the classroom.
“Keep a civil tongue in your head, Coleridge,” Ardis snapped. But she’d snapped automatically and concern showed in her eyes. “Aren’t you even one bit remorseful?”
He didn’t look it. He didn’t look as though he was hiding, either. He leaned back in the teacher’s chair with his feet, crossed at the ankles, on the desk. Except for his regulation boots, he was out of uniform. His jeans and T-shirt hadn’t gotten the memo, though. They probably weren’t starched, but they couldn’t quite carry off casual.
“Perhaps it would help if you told us what the fuss was all about.” Ernestine’s hands, clasped at her waist, gave her the look of a mole as Mother Confessor.
“There was no fuss,” Clod said. “It was merely a disagreement between two people who’ve never liked each other.”
“And yet you and I never break out in fisticuffs,” Mel said. She and Ardis sat down at desks directly in front of Clod.
John had stepped out of the room with Darla. I stayed by the door, keeping an ear on them, but watching Clod. Posturing, Ellen had said. He was still doing it, still putting up a front. But what lay behind it? Ernestine joined me at the door, and when John saw her, he motioned us into the hall.
“You might learn more without the whole crew in there,” he said. “Why don’t Ernestine and I walk around Handmade? Which booth was Al working?”
“One with a Christmas tree covered in balls that are really monkey’s fists.”
“A coincidence?” John asked.
“Sorry?”
“There was a monkey’s fist in one of the pictures—” He stopped and coughed. “A picture Ambrose showed me the other day. Shall we go?” He took Ernestine’s arm, raised his eyebrows at me behind Darla’s back, and headed for the gym.
The pictures of Hugh’s truck were still on the table at the Cat. If there was a monkey’s fist in one of them, I’d missed it. But John wouldn’t have.
“Monkey’s fists and Rogalla,” Darla said, watching my face. “Interesting. We found a monkey’s fist in that pouch Hugh McPhee had with him. One in his truck, too.” She looked at me and nodded. “Interesting. What pictures was John talking about—that Ambrose probably didn’t show him?”
“If I tell you that, will you tell me what’s going on with Cole?”
Her eyebrows thought that over, maybe weighing risks and benefits.
“Or, if you can’t tell me that, is there any way you can let me see Hugh’s pouch? See what was in it? I know that’s irregular—”
“And I know you’ve got notes. That you’re all working on this.”
There wasn’t any point in denying it.
“So,” she said, “you show me your notes and I’ll try to do both. But first, I want to hear what kind of bull he’s tossing to Ardis and Mel.”
We slipped back into the room, staying near the door so we didn’t interrupt the show. Mel, Ardis, and Clod hadn’t changed seats, but the dynamics between them had shifted. Clod was still posturing and still sat with his clodhoppers on the desk, but now Ardis was in charge. Sitting in the front row, she wasn’t the former teacher; she was the director of a piece of reality theater. Clod might be throwing out bull, but not with impunity; Ardis was digging for the motivation behind the bull. Mel, rapt, slid down in her seat and turned slightly so she could see both their faces and miss none of the nuances.
“But your attitude toward Hugh is different,” Ardis said. “I want to understand why.”
“Why not?”
“Too glib,” she said. “That answer isn’t good enough. There’s more.”
“Then it was the bagpipes.”
“And that’s not funny.”
“You can always find something funny about bagpipes,” Clod said. “Just not always ha-ha funny. Here’s a bagpipe riddle that’s been bugging me for the last few days. How easy is it for someone to sneak up on a bagpiper playing in the dark and strangle him? You want to know the answer? The sneaking-up part isn’t too hard.”
“Tasteless,” Ardis said.
“Speaking of which, it’s time for supper. I’m going home. Any reason I need to stick around, Deputy Dye?”
“None at all, Deputy Dunbar, dear.”
“Then you-all have a dandy evening.” He slammed his feet to the floor. More posturing—it made him wince, and he put a hand to his ribs on the way out.
Ardis and Mel got up, too, and the four of us watched him walk down the hall.
“Any idea what started the fight?” I asked Darla.
“He wouldn’t say. Had to be Rogalla.”
“That isn’t loyalty talking?” Mel asked.
“Nothing wrong with loyalty.” Darla stood up straighter and suddenly seemed . . . crisper. She had more of an edge, anyway. “Rogalla knows how to needle. Not just about Hugh. He’s the kind of guy who gets the jab in with a smile. Hugh’s death probably brought it to a head. Rogalla loves rubbing the house in Cole’s face.”
“What house?”
“He lives in the old McPhee house.”
“I’m not sure I knew that,” Ardis said.
“And what of it?” Darla swirled a finger in the air. “The big hero’s big house with the big columns in front. Big whoop.”
“Big mortgage, too, I expect,” Ardis said, “for a house that looks too formal to be comfortable. I’ve never been impressed by it. But you say Coleridge was?”
“That’s part of Rogalla’s needling,” Darla said. “He let Cole and everyone else believe he bought that pile right after McPhee inherited it. Now it turns out he was renting all these years until McPhee finally decided to sell.”
“Do you know why Cole’s attitude toward Hugh changed?” Ardis asked.
“My guess? Something to do with taking Hugh out to dinner that night.” She shrugged. “Heroes don’t always live up, you know?”
“Why was Cole suspended?” Mel asked. “That’s something I cannot get my mind wrapped around.”
Darla didn’t answer.
“He’s a public employee,” I said. �
�It’ll be reported in the Bugle.”
“True enough. It’s a crock, though. Sheriff Haynes accused him of mishandling a case.”
“What case?”
“That’s a crock, too. It isn’t even a case; it was an anonymous complaint. About someone stealing ducks from the park.”
Chapter 29
Darla’s radio did a Donald Duck imitation on her shoulder and she had to leave. (Or “fly,” as Mel said.) I asked her to give me a call when she had a chance. Then Ardis, Mel, and I went to find Ernestine and John, Mel wondering if she’d be able to keep herself from quacking the next time Clod came in the café.
“You could throw a roll at him and yell, ‘Duck,’” Ardis said.
“Add duck à l’orange to the menu,” said Mel.
“Or ask him if he wants quackers with his soup.” It felt good to laugh—at Clod’s expense in particular—but now we had another piece and no obvious place to put it. It felt as though we were collecting odd and unrelated bits for another yarn bomb installation, with no idea what we were creating. “There’re connections we’re not making,” I said, “and right now quacks and ducks are at the top of the list.”
“Including the Case of the Condescending Clue,” Ardis said. “Dabbling in detective work, indeed.” She told Mel about Clod tossing us the clue and telling us to knock ourselves out.
“Prophetic?” Mel asked. “I hope he hasn’t knocked himself out of a career.”
Ernestine and John were watching Joe demonstrate the kumihimo, and I could see John’s fingers itching to try it. Ernestine told us what they’d found out about the monkey’s fist booth.
“I only wish it had taken more ingenuity or skill,” she said. “But there’s something to be said for simply asking questions.”
“Asking the right questions takes insight and perception,” Ardis said.
“Or, as in our case, walking up to the young woman behind the table and saying, ‘Who’s in charge of your booth and did you know Hugh McPhee?’” Ernestine said the young woman standing behind the table at the booth had promptly burst into tears. “But I gave her a clean hankie and held her hand, and John got her a bottle of water.”
The booth was being run by volunteers from several area pet rescue groups. Enough of their members were crafters as well as pet lovers that they thought they’d give the show a try as a way to raise awareness and money. Hugh had been a supporter of the group from Knoxville. He’d donated the monkey’s fist Christmas ornaments to the effort and offered to sit at the booth for an hour. When I saw Al Rogalla there, he’d been filling in for Hugh.
“The sweet girl doesn’t know who Rachel is,” Ernestine said. “She thought Rachel was probably just visiting with Al. And here, dear, I thought I should contribute to their cause, so I bought one of Hugh’s ornaments for you.”
John said he’d drop Ernestine at home. Mel, Ardis, and I looked at each other and agreed without discussion to walk. Ardis used her six feet to scan the immediate area for the twins. She declared the coast clear and we snuck out—Ardis walking with her knees bent to give her a shorter profile. Mel peeled off when we reached the café, and left us with a quack and a guffaw. I told Ardis I was going to stop at the Cat and stare at the whiteboard for a while.
“And check on Geneva?” she asked. “How’s she doing?”
“Wondering why you took the bracelet off and left it off.”
Ardis rubbed her wrist.
“Will you put it back on?”
“I’ll think about it. Having her in my life puts a new twist on the notion of the sandwich generation.” She tried to laugh, but it sounded worn-out. “I’m not sure I’m capable of learning how to be niece to an aunt who is both one hundred and fifty years old and twenty-two. My seventy-year-old brain can take only so much boggling, and Daddy’s prancing might be more than enough to keep up with for the time being. Now, I’d best go rescue the sitter. I’ll see you in the morning.”
* * *
Argyle and I were squinting at the whiteboard I’d scribbled all over when Geneva floated down from the study.
“Squinted eyes are cozy and inviting in a cat,” she said. “You merely look dyspeptic.”
“Thanks.”
“I believe honesty is necessary in relationships.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Have you made any progress on the case? On either case?”
“Not a lot. They’re connected—connected in ways that are probably right in front of our eyes, but I’m not seeing them.”
“Did you draw those ducks up there?”
“Yeah.”
“You are not much of an artist.”
“I have no illusions.”
“That’s good. Why are you obsessed with ducks these days?”
I told her about the stolen-duck complaint and Clod’s suspension, and ended up telling her about the fight at Handmade Blue Plum. To say she was sorry she’d missed it would not capture the scope of her disappointment.
“Careening around corners with the darling twins?” she said. “Two strapping fellows defending their honor? And I missed it? I am dragged down into the depths of despond. And all you can say is ‘we missed it, too.’ That is hardly the point.”
“What is the point?”
“That if Ardis had not been so ardent, if she hadn’t pestered me mercilessly—”
“If you hadn’t given as good as you got?”
“And then she had the gall to rebuff me by taking off her bracelet and I thought it was my fault.” She billowed back and forth in front of the whiteboard. Argyle slunk off my lap and crouched under the table.
“Stop it.”
“And of course,” she said, “of course, once again, I am wrong and you’re asking me to stop.”
“I am. I want you to stop this. Ardis doesn’t deserve your rudeness. Think about it and be honest with yourself. You’re taking advantage of a situation, of being a ghost. I know you have no control over that, but you do have control over how you act and how you treat other people.”
“You don’t know what it’s like to be me.”
“I know what it’s like to be a person. I know what it’s like to be angry and resentful. I know what it’s like to regret things that I’ve done or said. And to be depressed, disappointed, and jealous. And vindictive.”
“Lost?”
“Not to the extent you have, no.” I waited a few seconds, then asked, “Are you still interested in being honest?”
She billowed some more, but listened.
“You say you’re lost, and I think I get that. But you’ve been dead for how long? More than a hundred years, right? So get over it.”
She whirled straight at me and I sat there. It wasn’t easy, but I pretended nonchalance, crossed my legs, studied my nails, tried not to run screaming from the room. Eventually she seemed to whirl herself out, and she drifted, like the ash from a leaf fire, onto the table.
“If I don’t let you, Geneva, you can’t hurt me.”
“Hmph.”
“Don’t let what Ardis does hurt you.”
“There are all kinds of hurt,” she said. “Hurts that scar.”
“There are. You’re right. Oh, hey, do you want to know how Hugh got that scar on top of his head?” I told her about the soccer riot when he was a graduate student.
“How terrifying! And fascinating. And I’m the only one who noticed the scar. But it sounds like a red herring.”
“Cases are full of them.”
“Ducks are, too, depending on where they live,” she said.
“You quack me up.”
Before going home, I snapped a picture of the whiteboard, with the notes I’d added to it, and sent the picture to the posse and to Darla. The board needed more pairs of eyes trying to decipher it. I didn’t erase it; it had taken too long to get the not
es and questions up there, and we would probably end up adding more. I locked the workroom door, though, and thought that was good enough, that the information was safe. And that was my mistake.
Chapter 30
The notes and questions on the whiteboard prompted a string of events and conversations the next day. Darla started it, calling way too early, even for a day I needed to be up and opening the shop at nine. We met at seven, and she let me in the door at the back of the courthouse. It was the same door Shorty had rushed out of when he’d answered our 911 call. Visiting public usually reached the sheriff’s department by climbing the courthouse steps, passing the row of columns, and entering the overlarge front doors.
“Come on in, quick,” Darla said. “This is definitely irregular.”
“Let’s not do it if you’re going to get in trouble.”
“I’ll be all right. It tends to be quiet this early on a Saturday. Come on down here.”
“Down here” was a dim basement corridor. The present courthouse dated to 1912, built on the foundations of previous structures. It kept in touch with its history with whiffs of old drain and flooding problems. Darla unlocked a door halfway down the corridor that opened into a room the size of a small bedroom. Two narrow windows high on the outside wall let in dingy light. She flipped on an overhead fluorescent that did nothing to improve the looks of the place. Metal cupboards and steel shelves lined the walls. A chipped and scratched six-foot folding table took up most of the floor space. It reminded me of the storage rooms I’d so often seen in underfunded museums.
Hugh McPhee’s clothes, and the belongings he’d had with him when he died, were laid out on the table. I stopped in the doorway and seriously considered backing out of this.
“It gets me like that, too,” Darla said. “Come on in. Come on over. If there’s any chance you can help, I’ll be grateful and so will he, wherever he is.”
“You’re a good person, Darla.” I crossed to the table and looked without touching until she told me it was all right. I still didn’t touch the wool of his tartan kilt, or any of his other clothes, and the sporran only gingerly until I knew it was safe. It was a handsome piece. About nine inches wide by seven high, the face of the pouch was black fur—probably rabbit—with three tassels. The back of the pouch and the front flap were leather. The flap was embossed with a graceful Celtic knot pattern.
