by J. R. Ripley
There was nothing in the room to give me a clue as to who Bobby Cherry was as a person or what he might have been up to. There was no clue as to what part, if any, he might have played in Virginia Johnson’s death.
Frustrated, I locked up, put the key in my coat pocket, and went back down the wobbly stairs. I wanted to get a look in the garage before Kim and Derek finished up in the house. There was no point in Kim knowing what I was up to. She was fragile enough as things were. No good could come of more talk of hanging and murder around her.
The side door leading into the garage was locked and my key wouldn’t fit in the lock. I went to the overhead garage door and gave the handle a tug. The old wood-paneled door was heavy, but I was able to lift it with effort.
Winter sunlight spilled inside the cluttered space. My eyes went immediately upward to the unfinished ceiling. Long beams ran parallel with the door. There was no sign of the rope that Mrs. Johnson or, more likely now, somebody else had used to string her up.
The walls of the garage were unfinished bare wood. Several metal trash cans stood near the front of the garage on the left. Old yard implements leaned against the walls. Mouse traps layered in inches of dust lined the walls. Racks of faded, threadbare clothing lay in heaps on the stained concrete floor. Stacks of sagging cardboard boxes, black with mold, dust, and bug droppings created a wall behind which I found an antique white spinet piano.
I didn’t see a piano bench. Jerry had mentioned that Virginia Johnson had supposedly used the bench to climb up and attach the rope from which she was found hanging. Somebody must have taken it away.
As much as I knew I was going to regret touching one of those disgusting boxes, I opened one of the least grungy and peeked inside. It was filled with old housewares, cups and plates, tattered dishtowels. It would appear that Virginia Johnson was something of a pack rat.
I bit my lip and sighed. I took a second look at the thick beams. They were high, but with a piano bench, I was sure I could reach one. As for Virginia Johnson, I had no idea of her height but expected that the police would have accounted for that.
Just to make extra sure, I picked up the smallest of the trash cans and carried it over to the center of the garage. Moving slowly and carefully, I lifted first one knee then the other up on the lid. The thin lid caved in a bit, but held. Satisfied that I wasn’t about to fall on my face, I gripped the sides of the can for balance and tried to get one foot under me.
“Amy!” shouted Kim.
I twisted. It was Kim, and Derek was with her. She stamped her foot. “What are you doing?”
20
“What?” I felt my balance slipping and the can teetering as I tilted my head toward them. Suddenly the world turned on its head. Or rather I did. I let go of the trash can as I fell helplessly to the floor. The garbage can crashed against the ground and rolled to my right, spilling garbage as it went.
Derek ran over, held out a hand, and helped me to regain my footing. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, more startled than bruised,” I answered as I brushed myself off.
“Glad to hear it.” Kim’s hands were planted on her hips. Anger and confusion were planted on her face. “But I repeat, Amy, what are you doing?”
My face was red and it wasn’t from the fall. “If you must know, I was checking something.”
Derek picked up the trash can, placed it with the others, and then went to work replacing all the garbage that had spilled out.
Kim moved into my personal space. “Like what?”
I glanced toward the beam. I hadn’t meant to. I couldn’t help it.
Kim slanted a look at me. “You’re not here because he wants to look for a house!” She pointed a finger at Derek, who was suddenly finding the trash extremely interesting. “You wanted to take a look at where Virginia Johnson hanged herself!”
Kim steamed out a breath. “That’s gross!” Her eyes bulged. “Amy, that’s, that’s morbid!”
“All right, it’s true.” I had already explained my theory and my reasoning to Derek. It was time to do the same with my best friend.
“I learned that Virginia Johnson had rheumatoid arthritis. Her hands were so bad,” I said, “that I don’t think she could possibly have managed to tie a rope and hang herself from there.” I pointed to the support beams.
Kim’s mouth fell open. She looked at the nearest beam then back at me. Derek was still on trash pickup duty. “Really?”
“Really,” I said. “I was just about to climb up for a better look. Mrs. Johnson apparently used a piano bench, but all I could find was a trash can.”
“Who would want to murder Mrs. Johnson?” Kim asked. “She was a sweet old lady.”
“She was also a Kinley and, as such, a ten percent owner of Christmas House Village. At least, she used to be.” I bent and began helping Derek pick up the spilled garbage.
“You think somebody killed her to get her share of Christmas House Village?” Kim pitched in.
“It seems a likely possibility,” Derek said. “I think you’re on to something, Amy.” He held out the trash can and I dropped in a handful of the junk I’d gathered up.
“Thanks,” I said. “The question is: Who? Franklin Finch ended up with Christmas House Village and—”
“And now he’s dead, too,” Kim finished.
“Yes,” Derek said. “And now Tyrone Kinley’s children are free to spend all the money they got from the sale of their father’s business.”
I had told Derek what Kim had explained to me about the Tyrone Kinley family and their desire to rid themselves of Christmas House Village, and Mrs. Johnson’s desire to keep it in the family. “That is a very good point, Counselor.”
“Thanks. I try.” Derek pushed the trash can toward Kim and she dropped in a handful of debris. “There’s a pile of old business cards in here.” He nosed inside the can. “Christmas House Village, an insurance company, pest control, a motorcycle dealer, several real estate cards, even a couple of Belzer Realty business cards in here,” he said, riffling through the pile. “You want them?”
Kim took a peek. “Eeew, no thanks. Mr. Belzer prints them up by the millions. I left several on the kitchen counter myself. In fact”—she dug in her purse, pulled out a leather business card case, and handed Derek two of them—“I forgot to give you one.”
Derek looked at the cards. “You know I’m not really in the market, right?”
Kim grinned. “In case you change your mind.”
Derek took them and put them in his wallet. “Thanks.” He recovered the lid of the trash can and set the closed can next to the others.
“Kim, you said before that Tyrone’s children live out of the area. How far out did you mean?”
“Do you mean like not so far that one of them couldn’t have come to Ruby Lake and given Mrs. Johnson some help with the rope?”
“Something like that.”
Kim twisted up her lips. “It seems to me they were all out of state. But I’ll check with Mr. Belzer.”
“Thanks. What about Bobby Cherry? Did you know him?” I asked.
“No, not really. I met him briefly when I came by with Mr. Belzer after Virginia Johnson’s death. We had to break the news to him that he was going to have to move out.”
“Didn’t her nephews and niece come by?”
“Not initially, though I imagine they were here for the funeral.”
“What about the sale of Christmas House Village?”
“How do you mean?” asked Kim.
“Weren’t the Kinley kids here for that?”
Kim shook her head. “All the contracts were handled by mail and fax.”
“How did Bobby take it when you and Ellery told him he was going to have to move out of this house?”
Kim planted her finger over her lips as she thought back. “Okay, I guess. To tell the truth, he d
idn’t say much of anything. He was kind of quiet.” She visibly shivered. “If it was me and somebody had hanged themselves downstairs of my room, I’d be more than happy to leave. In fact, you couldn’t keep me here.”
“Just what I was thinking,” added Derek.
“Do you know where Bobby Cherry is living now?” I asked.
“I don’t have a clue,” Kim said. “I could ask Mr. Belzer that, too. Maybe he knows or can find out. Belzer Realty does manage several commercial properties.”
“Now that you mention it, so does Randy,” I said hesitantly. Randy Vincent was Kim’s previous boyfriend. He and his wife run Vincent Properties and own a number of rentals around town.
Randy had been separated from his wife, Lynda, for over a year when Kim and he started dating. Lynda had always appeared okay with it.
However, Randy and Lynda had unexpectedly reconciled a short time ago. I wasn’t sure that Kim was completely over the trauma the breakup had caused.
To make matters worse, living in a small town made avoiding the source of your pain difficult. I could only hope the same thing didn’t happen to me and Derek.
“Not on your life,” was Kim’s quick reply. “But feel free to ask Randy yourself.”
I said I might. “What about Bobby? Do you remember anything else about him?”
Kim shrugged. “Only that he was young—must have been in his early twenties—had dark hair and pretty bad acne scars on his face. That’s about it, why?”
“I heard some unflattering things about him from Eve Dunnellon.”
“Unflattering how?” asked Kim.
“Unflattering as in mucking things up, disrupting the business with computer viruses, and other acts of vandalism.”
“That’s criminal mischief.” Derek whistled.
“This Bobby Cherry sounds nasty.” Kim pulled a face. “Why would Mrs. Johnson put up with him?”
I bent and picked up a couple more scraps of paper, one of which was a black and silver LaChance Motors business card. “Bobby worked at Christmas House Village.” I opened the trash can lid an inch and dropped the papers inside. “Until he was fired.”
“That might explain why he was living here at Virginia Johnson’s house,” suggested Derek.
Kim nodded. “Mr. Belzer told me that she occasionally took in boarders who worked at Christmas House Village. In fact, he said that employees were the only boarders she would take in.”
“The house is in bad shape,” I noted. “Do you think Mrs. Johnson was hurting for money?”
“I wouldn’t think so,” answered Kim. “She didn’t work, as far as I know, but I imagine she did collect her share of Christmas House Village profits.”
“According to your boss, Christmas House Village wasn’t all that profitable.”
“Really?” Kim’s surprise showed on her face. “I always assumed.”
“Don’t look now but we’ve got company,” Derek said softly.
Kim and I turned to see a police car pull into the driveway. Chief Kennedy was at the wheel and Officer Dan Sutton was in the passenger seat.
“Uh-oh,” I said.
Chief Kennedy stepped from the squad car, zipped up his leather jacket, then thrust his hands in the pockets as he swaggered up to us. Dan came around the other side. “What are you folks doing here?”
The three of us walked out of the garage.
“Hello, Chief. Hi, Dan.” Kim wiggled her fingers at the officer. He nodded a reply. “I was showing Derek the Johnson house. He’s in the market. Isn’t that right, Derek?”
Derek stepped to the forefront. “That’s right. I can’t live upstairs in that tiny apartment of mine forever.”
Jerry wriggled his jaw. “Is that so?”
“What are you doing here, Jerry?” I asked.
“We were on our way to Swan—” Dan started.
Jerry gave him a look that told him that he would do the talking. “It so happens that we are on our way to Swan Ridge,” the chief admitted. “I thought it would be worth driving by the Johnson house again.”
“Are you going to interview Virginia Johnson’s rheumatologist, Dr. Santiago?”
I left my question to Dan Sutton, regarding the most recent purported vandalism at Christmas House Village, unasked because I didn’t want to get Dan in trouble with his boss. Jerry wouldn’t like Dan sharing information with me. What Jerry didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. I’d ask Dan about it later.
Jerry squirmed, his hands still buried in his pockets. “If what you say is true, Mrs. Johnson’s death may bear some further looking into.”
I took his words for what they were worth. I knew he’d never tell me I’d had a good idea, let alone helped him in any fashion.
The police chief walked into the garage and gazed up at the beams. “We found her right there.”
Chief Kennedy turned back to the three of us. “There was no reason to suspect anything other than a suicide.” He sighed and his breath came out in a small cloud. “It happens more than you might think.”
Jerry grabbed the inside handle of the garage door and gave it a pull. The heavy door rattled on its tracks and slammed into the ground. “Let’s go, Dan.” He turned to Derek. “Good luck with the house hunting, Mr. Harlan.”
“Thanks, Chief.”
“Bye, Dan!” waved Kim. “Call me later?”
Dan blushed and nodded once more before climbing back into the passenger seat of the squad car.
I found myself grinning. I couldn’t help thinking that Kim had turned the corner on her depression. “Come on,” I said, heading down to Riley’s truck at the curb, “let’s go get us some Christmas trees!”
“Christmas trees?” Kim held out her hand. “Give me the apartment key.”
I handed her the key to the FROG. She returned both it and the house key to the lockbox, jiggled the front door knob to be sure she had locked up, then scurried to join us. I took the middle seat and she squeezed in beside me.
“What’s all this about Christmas trees?” she asked.
“Derek does not have a Christmas tree—”
“Nor do you,” interrupted our handsome driver.
“Nor do I,” I agreed. “We’re on our way to pick up Maeve and hit the tree lot. You want to come? I noticed you don’t have a tree either. We’ll get you one, my treat.”
“Thanks,” replied Kim. “But if you don’t mind, I think I’ll ask Dan to take me.”
“Better yet,” I conceded. “When you see him, ask him what happened at Mrs. Claus’s Kitchen.”
“What happened at the café?” Kim asked.
“When I saw Dan earlier outside the police station, he mentioned there had been a report of vandalism. He was on his way to check it out.”
Kim promised she would. She also boasted that her Christmas tree would be bigger and more fantastic than mine.
“I’m not even going to dignify that remark with a reply,” I said, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear while silently vowing to settle for nothing less than a fifty footer even if it meant cutting a hole in my ceiling to contain it.
21
We dropped Kim off at her place, then went to pick up Derek’s daughter.
“There’s a tree seller a few doors down from my office,” Derek said as we passed Birds & Bees. “Next door to my barber’s.”
“Okay. Riley got our store tree at the lumber yard. But a tree’s a tree.”
Derek turned to me with a grin. “As long as it’s twice the size of Kim’s?”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” I agreed, to the sound of his laughter filling the cab.
We parked in front of Derek’s law office. Ben waved from his desk in the front. I waved back and waited in the truck while Derek went next door to Dream Gowns to pick up Maeve. From there, the three of us walked to the tree lot.
The usually empty lot sat between two downtown buildings, a bank on one side and a barber shop on the other. Stacks of Fraser firs leaned against the walls of the neighboring buildings and more trees stood in temporary stands, their limbs open for display. Several were decorated with ornaments and tinsel.
Festive Christmas carols played from speakers nailed to long two-by-four pine boards pounded into the earth. Wires connected the speakers to each other, then joined up at the compact teardrop-shaped trailer near the street. The trailer had a large red bow atop it. A real fir Christmas wreath hung from the trailer’s open door. Two three-foot-tall plastic candles flickered on either side of the entrance. Atop the trailer, Santa rode his sleigh and seven reindeer provided the muscle power.
There were tables of wreaths for sale. Bundled-up tree shoppers strolled the aisles between the trees, cups of free eggnog, hot apple cider, or hot chocolate in their glove- and mitten-covered hands.
I couldn’t help but smile as we walked up together. Maeve held hands with her father. So did I. “Smells like Christmas,” I remarked.
Maeve and Derek agreed.
My smile disappeared when I saw the man in the Santa Claus hat step down from the sales trailer.
Despite the Santa-like appearance, the man was a real scrooge. This man was Robert LaChance, a local businessman.
I groaned.
Derek paused at the entrance, where a young man in a knit cap and dirty jeans was bundling up a tree in thin red netting in preparation for tying it to the roof of the silver SUV idling at the curb. “What’s wrong?” asked Derek.
I couldn’t get the frown off my face. “It’s Robert.” Robert LaChance had exchanged his usual pinstripe suit for a tailored Santa Claus costume. There was nothing fat and jolly about this Santa stand-in, however. He wasn’t wearing a beard, white or otherwise.
Robert was wearing black leather boots, but the pair on his feet looked more like they’d been designed and crafted by expert Italian cordwainers rather than shoemaker elves.
