by J. R. Ripley
“I know. I couldn’t help hearing.” The waitress shook her head slowly. “Scoot over, Amy.” Tiffany motioned for me to make room.
I slid across the red vinyl bench and Tiffany settled in across from Karl. She set the coffeepot on the table. “You should have been here the night he was killed. It was practically a mob. I was scared somebody might actually get hurt. Tiffany stopped suddenly, her green eyes growing wide. “Oh!” she said, bringing her dainty hand to her mouth. “Somebody did, didn’t they?” She looked first at Karl, then at me.
“Are we still talking about Franklin Finch’s murder?” I said.
“Then it was murder?” Tiffany said, her voice a whisper. “For real?”
“For real,” Karl said. He extended his hands toward Tiffany. “The killer—”
“Or killers,” I added.
“Or killers,” agreed Karl, “strangled Franklin Finch with their bare hands then strung him up like a side of beef.”
Tiffany gasped and recoiled.
“Karl!” I admonished. “Must you be so graphic?”
Karl dropped his hands and stuffed a French fry in his mouth. “Sorry, Tiffany.”
She patted his hand. “That’s okay, Karl.” Nonetheless, she was rubbing her neck and looking troubled.
“Let me get this straight, Tiff. Are you talking about the night that Mr. Finch was murdered?” I pressed closer to Tiffany, my grilled cheese growing cold.
Color returned to Tiffany’s face. “That’s right,” she said, playing with her pencil. “There was a whole group of Christmas House Village employees here. They had about half the tables.”
“Employees or ex-employees?” I asked.
Tiffany merely shrugged. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. Sorry.”
“That’s okay.” I picked at my slaw with my fork. “Was Irma Fortuny here?”
Tiffany thought a moment. “Yes. Oh, and Eve Dunnellon. I know her because she comes in a lot.” She shook her head in frustration. “And a whole bunch of folks whose names I don’t know.”
“What about William?”
“William?” Tiffany squeezed her brows together.
“He’s a big-shouldered old man. He walks with a cane.”
Karl chuckled. “There are a lot of old men walking around on canes in these parts, Amy. You’ve been out to Rolling Acres. The joint’s full of ’em.”
Karl was right, of course. Rolling Acres was the senior living facility where he owned a bungalow.
“He would have been with Mrs. Fortuny, probably,” I clarified. “The cane has a bird’s head handle.”
Tiffany smiled in recognition. “Like an eagle?”
I nodded.
“Yes, he was here. Mr. Finch was here, too, with Kim. They were sitting right here in this booth.” The waitress aimed her eyes directly at me. “As a matter of fact, Franklin Finch was sitting right where you are now.”
I about jumped off the bench. There wasn’t much less pleasant than sitting in a dead man’s seat. Unfortunately, I was trapped between the plate-glass window and Tiff.
“Franklin Finch was here with his employees?” Karl appeared surprised.
“No, not with them.” I explained how Kim had asked to meet with him to discuss retaining the employees and even keeping the original Kinley’s name. “I’m sure she had no idea that a group of Finch’s disgruntled employees would be meeting here at the same time.”
“That was bad timing.” Karl grabbed the catsup, lifted the top of his lukewarm burger, and gave it a dousing. He twisted the top of the bun back in place and took a huge bite.
“Was there any trouble?” I asked Tiff.
“There was a lot of hollering. For a minute or two, Moire was talking about calling the police to come break it up,” Tiffany said. “Our customers were getting upset and looking uncomfortable.”
“But nobody came to blows?” I pushed. “I mean, did anyone attack Mr. Finch?”
Karl smiled. “I see where you’re going, Amy. You’re wondering if those marks on his neck could have been caused earlier. But he was strangled, remember? Not beaten up.”
I frowned. Karl was right.
“It’s funny, now that I think about that night. There was a young guy in uniform with them,” Tiffany added, “and he seemed as riled as the rest of them.”
“What sort of uniform?” I asked.
“Green with a black leather jacket.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Like a security guard uniform?”
“Exactly.” That sounded like Max of the North Pole. The same Max who’d been in Finch’s office when I’d had my initial meeting with him and whom I then saw lurking outside the office afterward. What was Max’s story?
Whose side was he on? Had he been Finch’s enemy or had he been his mole?
The line cook stuck his head out the order window and called Tiffany’s name. She grabbed the coffeepot and stepped from the booth. “And like Karl said, nobody did any physical fighting. The only fighting here that night was verbal.”
Tiffany headed up the aisle and looked back to say, “Once Mr. Finch and Kim left, folks quieted down.”
Watching her leave, I said to Karl, “I can’t help wondering if one of those people here that night might not have had some pent-up anger.”
“And went back to Christmas House Village to finish the argument in private?” Karl said, before chomping down on his burger. “I suppose that would fit the timeline.”
“Exactly. But which one of them was it?”
“There’s no telling. Tiffany can’t even say who all was here.”
“I’ll talk to Kim. Maybe she’ll remember. Do you think you can find out anything about this acquaintance of Mrs. Fortuny, this William character?”
Karl rubbed his chin. “I’ll see what I can do. The trick is to squeeze the information out of Jerry without him knowing. If he can’t help, I’ve still got my sources.”
“Thanks, Karl. While you’re at it, how about checking out Irma Fortuny and Bobby Cherry?”
Karl looked amused at my mention of the first name and confused by my mention of the second. “If you say so, Amy. Do you know what you’re looking for?”
“Not yet. But who knows? Maybe we’ll find a killer.”
Karl chuckled. “I wouldn’t mind solving this one before Jerry does. Show him that an old dog can still hunt.”
We finished eating our lukewarm meals. Karl promised to let me know if he learned any other inside information via Chief Kennedy.
“What are you going to do?” he asked, opening his wallet and forking over his share of the bill.
“After I talk to Kim, I think I’ll pay another visit to Christmas House Village.”
“Snooping?”
“Snooping? Of course not, Karl. ’Tis the season.” I smiled disingenuously. “I’m going to do a little Christmas shopping. Pick up a few gifts. Maybe,” I said, reaching across the booth and touching the tip of his nose, “I’ll even get a gift for you.”
And if that shopping included picking up a killer rather than a killer bargain, then so much the better.
12
The next morning, Esther and I worked the morning shift at Birds & Bees. Kim had been scheduled but was a no-show. I had been unable to reach her last night, and I was growing more and more concerned about her.
After trying several times over the course of the morning, I’d called Dan Sutton on his personal cell phone to see what he could tell me. Dan explained that he had spent some time with Kim the previous evening. He assured me she was okay, if a bit gloomy. Dan did not know if she would be going to work that day, either at Belzer’s Realty or Birds & Bees.
She hadn’t been working much at all lately and seemed to be coming apart at the seams.
Dan also told me there hadn’t been any real progress made in Franklin Finch’s
murder except to confirm the strangling and that the police were conducting interviews. He may have known more than he was telling, but that was all I could get out of him—on or off the record.
Customers trickled in and the morning dragged on. I wasn’t concerned; I knew things would pick up after lunch. Happily, Derek called before noon and we made plans for dinner that night.
In a cleared space near the center of the store, I was giving a scheduled early-afternoon demonstration on crafting roosting pockets when Cash Calderon came in the door. He took a look around, noticed me surrounded by a handful of customers, and waved. He mouthed that he was going down to the basement.
I nodded an acknowledgment and continued the demonstration.
Seated on a stubby, wooden three-legged stool, I held the roost between my knees and was weaving a long strand of grass in and out.
Woven from raffia grass, an easily workable, light brown, dried palm frond, such as you might see a traditional hula skirt made from, the teardrop-shaped roosts were the perfect spot for birds to escape the cold, the wet, and the wind. The roosting pouches were particularly attractive to chickadees and wrens, which typically roost alone.
The demonstration wrapped up about a half hour later. Then I spent a few minutes chatting and answering questions from the small audience.
“Can you handle it from here?” I asked Esther.
“Sure thing.”
I carried the roosting pocket I’d woven during the demonstration over to the ten-foot Christmas tree along the wall between the seed bins and the sales counter. Cutting a strip of narrow red ribbon from a spool, I ran the ribbon through the loop I’d created at the top of the grass pocket, then attached the pocket over a slender branch, joining the dozen or so that were already hanging there.
Cousin Riley had brought the Christmas tree to the store earlier that week. He then affixed silver and gold tinsel along the sales counter and strung more across the ceiling. He promised to get to the outdoor holiday lights soon.
Riley’s a bit of a jack-of-all-trades and helps out in and around the property, in addition to working for anyone else in town who needs a hand now and then. He also helps out at the Theater on the Square, our town’s community theater, where he mostly builds scenery but keeps hoping for his big acting break.
I asked Esther to tend to the shoppers and hand out the sheets I had printed up listing the necessary items and basic building instructions for the roosting pockets to everyone who wanted one.
Some customers were buying materials to have a go at building their own roosts. Others opted to buy from the supply of premade pockets we kept on hand. While we carry the roosts all year, I had arranged a larger, more prominent display of them now with winter around the corner.
In addition to the woven pockets, we sold wood roosting boxes. I was thinking of having Aaron Maddley, a local farmer and craftsman who supplied us with birdhouses, come in one day and give a workshop on building those if there was enough interest. I’d put a sign-up sheet on the bulletin board and see how many signatures we collected from our customers.
I picked up my stool and set it out of the way near the window, then crossed to the basement door. I was about to head downstairs when Cash Calderon appeared from around the corner as he came up the steps.
“Hi, Mr. Calderon,” I said, unable to hide the surprise in my voice. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
“Hi, Amy.” Cash Calderon, a local general contractor, clomped up the wooden steps, swiping a cobweb from his red-and-black-checked flannel shirt. “I finally had some time to check out the furnace for you.”
“And?” I’d been complaining about the lack of hot water and, now with the colder weather, the lack of sufficient heat. I had called Mr. Calderon’s company, CC Construction, several weeks ago and his wife had promised he’d come out first chance he got. I’d told her there was no hurry and wasn’t expecting him until after the holidays. I was glad to see him sooner rather than later.
No news is good news, isn’t that what they say?
“And it’s not good, I’m sorry to say.”
While I’d heard Mr. Calderon was approaching sixty, working construction kept him as fit as a man twenty years younger. His eyes were dark blue and he had a distinctive mole just below his left earlobe.
My face fell. “Not good as in what?” The contractor had made a number of repairs on my house since I’d moved in. He’d also scolded me for not having had a home inspection performed before buying.
I was still paying for that mistake. I had bought three stories, an attic, and a basement full of trouble.
Mr. Calderon pulled a notebook from his leather jacket, licked his finger, and began flipping through the pages—the sheer number of which was scaring me. He looked up at me. “You might want to sit down for this.”
I drew my teeth across my lower lip. “Come on. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.” I led him to the kitchenette in the corner of the store. “Have a seat.” I lifted the coffeepot. “Help yourself to the cupcakes.” Mom and Esther had made a morning trip to C Is For Cupcakes and brought back a couple dozen for our customers. There were plenty remaining.
“Thanks. I don’t mind if I do.” The contractor’s hand hovered over the open box a moment before selecting a chocolate cupcake with strawberry frosting.
I set our coffee mugs on the table between our two rocking chairs. “Go ahead,” I said, gripping my knees. “Let me have it.”
He licked a bit of frosting off his thumb and set his papers across his thigh. “First off, the water heater is shot.”
I groaned and lifted my knees to my chest.
“Second, your plumbing is shot.”
I stood and reached for a cupcake. I didn’t care what flavor it was, I wanted the one with the tallest pile of frosting. I plucked the foil paper from its edges, tipped it over, and ripped off the bottom.
Cash Calderon watched, his brow slightly raised, but made no comment.
I plopped down in my chair and urged him to continue.
“You’ve got cast-iron pipes running throughout. They’ve rusted and rotted and will have to be replaced with PVC. ” He looked over at me for a moment. “That means tearing up the basement floor.”
“PVC, right.” I chewed, swallowed, and went for the top half, the half with all the vanilla buttercream on the banana-flavored cupcake.
“That is code.” He paused and cleared his throat. “On further inspection, I noticed you have asbestos in the ceiling. Because we’re going to be cutting into the walls, that will need to be ameliorated.”
“Ameliorated, right.” I nodded and considered a second cupcake. The only thing preventing me was that he had yet to finish his first. I opted for my coffee instead and took a slow drink.
“And then there is the electrical . . .” He looked at me.
Was that pity I was seeing in his eyes?
“Electrical?” I dropped my feet to the floor. “I have noticed some occasional problems.”
“Like appliances shorting out, popped fuses, and the smell of burning toast?”
I smiled. “Yes, like that. Glitches.”
His brow arched. “Those glitches could burn down your house.”
“Oh.” I reached for a second cupcake. Sugar is a known cure for anxiety. Sugar and fat. “So,” I said, peeling back the second wrapper and breaking my cupcake in two. “How much is this going to cost me, Mr. Calderon?”
He flipped through his papers some more, to the accompanying clicking of his tongue. “I’ll work up some numbers back at the office and get back to you.”
“Ballpark?”
“It will cost less than a ballpark,” he said with a smile, “but not by much.”
My jaw fell.
“Sorry!” Mr. Calderon said, snatching in midair the cupcake that fell from my open hand. “Bad joke.”
The c
upcake was now a pile of yellow mush in his palm. “Let me get that for you!” I jumped to my feet, grabbed the washcloth, and turned on the tap.
“No bother.” Mr. Calderon stood and stuck his hand under the running water, then wiped it dry with the towel. “Good as new.”
I pulled a face. “I wish my house was.”
“Sorry, Amy. But when you buy a house built in the eighteen hundreds, you’re going to have a few problems.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Like eighteen hundred of them.” Over the contractor’s laugh, I asked, “Speaking of old houses, have you ever done any work over at Christmas House Village?”
“Of course,” said Mr. Calderon, picking up his now-empty mug and rinsing it in the sink. “In fact, I have a maintenance contract with them. At least, I did.”
“Did? Did Franklin Finch drop you, too?”
The contractor nodded. “Our firm had an annual agreement with Christmas House Village. The Kinleys renewed it each year.” The corners of Mr. Calderon’s mouth turned down. “Franklin Finch called me up and declared it null and void.”
“And now he’s null and void,” I quipped.
Surprise showed on the contractor’s face. “You’re not thinking I had anything to do with his death?”
“No,” I said, quickly patting his sleeve. “Not at all. I just wondered if you’d noticed anything going on over there.”
“Or knew who might have wanted him dead?”
I pouted. “Something like that.”
“Sorry, Amy.” I noticed a hesitation in his eyes. “Although . . .”
“Yes?”
“Now that you mention it, I have had several persons asking me questions about Christmas House Village.”
“What sort of questions?”
He shrugged. “Nothing particular. They were curious as to what condition the property was in.”
“Who wanted to know?”
The contractor thought a moment, then tugged at his collar. “Sorry, Amy. I don’t think it’s my place to say.” He turned and headed toward the back door. “Like I said, I’ll get back to you soon with some numbers.”
“Take your time,” I replied, as he stepped out into the cold. I had a feeling those numbers were going to be large.
