by J. R. Ripley
Mom shook her head in disbelief. “You really think he or his sister might have had something to do with Matt’s death? I mean, I remember hearing what Matt had done to Grace, about the baby and all—and it was an awful thing—but still.” Mom pushed her shoulders back and wagged her finger at me. “And to go out to Mr. Maddley’s barn and snoop around like that!” She gripped my arm. “What were you thinking? What if he’d caught you?” I lowered my eyes. “You could have gone to jail, Amy!”
I felt my face flush. “Actually”—I cleared my throat and admired my toes—“he sort of did.”
“What?!” gasped Mom, waving a hand in front of her nose.
I stuck my arm out at Kim. “She should have warned me! Besides, it was her idea!”
“Hey!” exclaimed Kim. She punched me in the arm. “Don’t go blaming me for this. And I’ll have you know, I did try to warn you, like I said earlier. It’s not my fault you didn’t answer. When Aaron came in here and—”
“What?” I was confused. And my arm hurt. The girl packed a good punch. “Aaron came here? To the store?” I massaged my upper arm.
She nodded. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It was just before you arrived, Mrs. Simms.”
“What did he want?” I asked.
Kim heaved a shoulder. “Said he was in the area and wanted to say hi. To you, that is.” Kim smirked. “I think he’s smitten.” She fluttered her eyelashes and propped her hands under her chin. “He said the two of you had a lovely date Saturday night.”
“It wasn’t a date.” It was an interrogation. Sort of. I had seemed to be the only one of us interested in talking about the murder that night.
Mom arched her right brow and faced me. “Smitten? Isn’t that lovely, Amy?”
I pulled a face. “Oh yeah, nothing like having a cold-blooded murder suspect smitten with me to make my day.”
Mom rolled her eyes. “Suddenly you’re Miss Choosy?”
Mom’s been watching too much of the Kardashians—thinks bizarre is the new normal. I waved at Kim to continue. “Go on. What else did he say?”
“Nothing much. Said the farmers’ market was cancelled due to rain.” I should have expected that—it is an outdoor market. “He said the parking lot was flooded and all the merchants agreed to reschedule.”
I sank down on the stool behind the register and pulled off my boots. I really needed to be smarter about this whole investigating thing before something went seriously wrong. I didn’t want Mom reading about my murder in the Ruby Lake Weekender. Besides, Lance would probably get my name wrong. Then Mom would truly have a conniption fit.
“I tried to phone you, but you didn’t pick up.”
“I left my phone in my purse in the van,” I said. I rubbed my feet through my stockings.
Kim nodded. “I even suggested he might want to stop at the diner and get something to eat. You know, trying to slow him down from going back to his place. But he said he wanted to get home and catch up on some chores. He also said he might get started on those cardinal houses for you.”
Maybe. But I wondered if I’d ever be seeing those birdhouses or even Aaron Maddley ever again. Something told me our business relationship might be over. Especially after I turn him in.
Of course, I might be asked to testify against him at his trial. What would it be like, having to face him in the courtroom?
“I hope this serves as a lesson to you,” Mom said. She returned the feed scoop to its holder and straightened the bags. “Snooping around on private property.”
“Mom.”
“Spying on people.”
“Mom!”
She turned to face me. “Yes, dear?”
I sighed. “Don’t you want to know what I found?”
Kim’s eyes sparked. “You found something?”
I nodded and explained about the torn and bloody clothes and the knife. When I was done, there was stunned silence.
Mom looked suddenly pale and troubled. “I don’t like this at all,” she said quietly. I rose from the stool and urged her to sit. “What is happening to our nice little town?”
I dug my phone out of my purse and dialed. Anita Brown, police dispatcher and pinochle champ, answered.
“Hello, may I speak to Chief Kennedy, please?”
“What are you doing?” Kim asked.
“Hopefully, exposing a killer.”
21
A squat man with tight black curls, bushy brows, and a crooked nose smiled at me. “I’ve got hives,” he said, his face animated. “What can you do for me?”
I squinted one eye at him. He didn’t look too bad. No facial swelling. No wheals. “Calamine lotion?” I mean, what do you treat hives with?
He bent over double, slapping his hands against his calves, and guffawed. “Calamine lotion, that’s rich.” He straightened, flashing black eyes and white teeth. “I like you, lady. You’re all right.” He wore a baggy blue raincoat over a nondescript, even baggier gray sweat suit.
“Thanks,” I said rather nervously. Was it take-a-day-off-from-the-asylum day?
He stuck out his hand. “Mitch Quiles. I own Quiles Apiary.” He looked like he’d make a perfect Sancho Panza if they ever did a remake of the musical Man of La Mancha.
I looked at him blankly.
“Over on Hillsborough?”
Hillsborough. That wasn’t far from where Aaron Maddley lived. “Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard of it. I’m sure it’s lovely though,” I hastened to add.
He beamed. “Yeah, it’s lovely all right. I saw in the paper that you’ve got apiary supplies. It’s about time I was able to buy local.” He rubbed his hands together. “So, what have you got?”
Finally, I understood what he was going on about. “Ohh,” I said, drawing the word out. “Hives.” I smiled. “I get it now.”
I waved for him to follow me to the alcove under the back stairs where I had a small selection of beekeeping supplies and gear.
“Nice,” the man said, taking it all in. “You have bees?” There was hope in his voice. Maybe he was wishing to find a fellow bee enthusiast.
“No. Not yet. I hope to, though.”
Mitch Quiles bobbed his head. “It’s a great hobby. Of course, for me, it’s a business.” He fondled an inexpensive cotton/poly blend beekeeper’s suit hanging from a hook.
“I don’t have much in bee inventory,” I explained. “I wasn’t sure how much demand there’d be for any of it. Compared to the birds, that is.” I had a few basic starter kits, bottles for honey, screens, protective clothing, feed, and an assortment of hive accessories.
“Bees are important, miss. Mighty important.”
“Oh, I agree completely. I’ll have to stop by your place some time.”
He beamed like a proud peacock. “I’d be happy to show you around.”
“You know, I have a friend”—boy, that was sure using the word loosely, considering I’d ratted the guy out to the police—“who lives out your way. Aaron Maddley. Perhaps you know him?”
“Sure, I know him,” Mitch replied loudly. “Neighbor of mine. We share a property line.”
“Is that so?” Maybe Mitch Quiles had noticed something or someone out of the ordinary, like Aaron’s sister, Grace, out at the farm. “Did you happen to notice—”
“Kim!” Randy Vincent stood in the doorway. He was dressed in black leather pants and a black leather jacket. He held a motorcycle helmet under his arm. I was no detective, but I knew he hadn’t ridden here on the bus. Was he auditioning for the role of Danny Zuko in the local dinner theater’s revival of Grease, the Musical? All he needed was a pompadour and he’d be a shoo-in. If he could sing and dance, that is.
“Randy!” I heard Kim shout from the other end of the store. “What are you doing here?”
He trounced across the floor, his motorcycle boots pounding against the floorboards. “I got your message.” He held out his cell phone. “What’s going on?”
“Speaking of fl
oorboards”—Mitch lightly tugged my sleeve—“have you got any screened bottom boards?”
I pushed my tongue against the inside of my cheek—torn between watching the nascent drama unfolding between my best friend and her boyfriend, and my new customer. My eyes scanned the alcove. “I’m pretty sure I ordered some.” I tapped a finger of my left hand against the splinter wound of my right palm. Sometimes it takes a little pain to get one focused. “I don’t see them here. I may not have had time to unpack them yet. Let me check for you.” I hurried to the storeroom, looking over my shoulder at Kim and Randy having words in the far corner near the coffee machine.
Bottom boards, bottom boards. My eyes flitted around the space. Finally, I found an unopened case of bottom boards from my supplier up in Minnesota. Bottom boards are just what they sound like, the floor of the hive upon which all other components are built. Often, as temperatures rise in the spring, bees collect there. Screened bottom boards help produce better broods, increase airflow and reduce varroa mite infestations, and are part of a good integrated pest management system. The varroa mite is a parasite that only reproduces in honeybee colonies and, if gone unchecked, can destroy an entire colony.
I slit open the case with a box knife and took a stack of boards to the front. “Here you go.” I handed several to Mr. Quiles.
He turned one over in his hand. “Looks good.” He ran one under his nose and took a whiff. “Cedar. I like that.”
Kim and Randy had disappeared by the time I’d rung up Mitch Quiles’s purchase. Before he left, he promised to drop me off a free jar of his honey.
The remainder of the afternoon flew by. No bird puns intended. Kim never did come back to the store. Mom left when Aunt Betty came by around three to give her a ride back to her house. I was just about to lock the door when it pushed toward me.
I leaped back. “Aaron!” I looked madly around for a weapon but came up empty-handed. I retreated behind the counter and he dogged me. “What are you doing here?” Why wasn’t he in jail?
He glared at me, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his heavy dark coat. “Surprised to see me?” His eyes danced. “Why? Because you thought the police had arrested me?”
“Well, I—” I glanced over his shoulder out the window. Where were the police when you needed them?
“I thought we were friends, Amy.” He shook his head. “Maybe more than friends.”
“I’m sorry, Aaron.” I fiddled with the register to keep my hands busy, but I kept one eye on him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He raised his brow. “Are you trying to tell me that you didn’t telephone the police and report to that lamebrain Jerry Kennedy that you’d found some kind of crazy evidence out at my place?”
Silence but for the ticking of the clock on the wall behind me. Finally, I spoke. “If you’re innocent, you have nothing to hide.”
“If you’re smart,” Aaron huffed, “you’ll stay out of things that don’t concern you.” He spun on his heels and headed for the door.
“Matt Kowalski’s murder is my business!” I shouted angrily. “And I’ll stick my nose wherever I damn well feel like it!”
He stopped in the open door and shook his head slowly. “Do you always think the worst of everybody, Amy? Because if you do”—he paused as Kim, finally, came pushing past him—“I feel sorry for you.”
He let the door close behind him.
“Well, at least he didn’t slam it,” I quipped.
Kim raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Want to tell me what that was all about?”
I frowned and folded my arms across my chest. “You first.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kim’s eyes were red and puffy and she looked completely worn-out. Her clothes were rumpled and her makeup, well, let’s just say she’s looked better.
“Let’s see, Randy comes in here dressed like the Fonz and the two of you disappear. You show no sign of life for hours.” She hadn’t even answered my texts or phone calls. “Want to tell me what that was all about?”
Kim said nothing, her focus out the window.
I blew out a breath. The woman could be so annoying. “Then you return, looking like somebody with a story to tell. And a sad one at that.” I tapped her on the shoulder. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Huh.” She twisted her head to one side.
I pulled a face. “What?”
She pointed. “That pickup.”
I saw Aaron Maddley climbing into his Tacoma at the curb. “What about it?”
“It looks sort of familiar.” She turned to face me. “I feel like I’ve seen it before.”
I wasn’t sure that mattered. “Ruby Lake is a small town. You’re bound to have seen it at least once in a while.”
“No.” Kim shook her head. “I think I saw it here.”
My brows shot up.
“At the store.”
I felt my pulse quicken. “When?”
“The night I came here,” she said softly, “to pick up my tablet.”
The night Matt Kowalski was murdered . . .
22
“You broke up with him?!” I thumped the cushion of the sofa in my apartment and leaned back. “Why?”
“Because of you,” cried Kim. “Because of what you said!”
“What did I say?!” I was practically shrieking. “I didn’t say a thing.” And I did not want to be the reason that any two people broke up.
Kim sniffled and I tossed her a tissue from the box I’d carried over from the bathroom. She’d gone through half a box of the things already. “Maybe not in so many words, but your eyes did.”
I rolled my unfairly blamed eyes. “Oh brother.” I poured us each a second glass of wine, or maybe it was the third. Zinfandel goes down fast and doesn’t leave a tally. The buzzer sounded and I raced downstairs to let the pizza deliveryman from I Heart NC Pizza inside.
We drowned our respective sorrows in pizza and wine. The alcohol spilled freely into our glasses while Kim’s sorrows spilled out from her heart. It seemed somehow she’d gotten the idea that I disapproved of her relationship with Randy and so had broken things off with him. That’s why he’d come into Birds & Bees all upset.
“I meant no such thing,” I said for the umpteenth time. “And if I implied it,” I said, taking her two hands in mine and squeezing, “I’m sorry.”
Kim wiped her eyes with a pizza-shop napkin.
“If you keep crying like that your eyes are going to turn permanently red.”
Kim chuckled. A trace of a smile lit her face.
“It’s true,” I continued. “I read it online someplace.”
Kim wiped her pink-tipped nose. “Thanks.”
“Feel better?”
Kim blew out a breath and propped her elbows on her knees. We sat on the sofa. The TV was on. The Food Network is a great go-to when you want to take your mind off other things. Like murders and breakups. You could kill an entire evening just debating the wisdom and merits of Anne Burrell’s latest hairdo. “Yeah.”
“Good,” I said. I waved the empty wine bottle in front of her nose. “Because tomorrow you’re going to have one hell of a headache.” I bit my cheek. “We both are.” Not to mention I’d eaten half a large pizza.
We moved from the couch to the bedroom. “Speaking of tomorrow,” I said, arranging a clean set of sheets on Mom’s bed—Kim was going to be staying over—“why don’t you call Randy tomorrow and have a real heart-to-heart?”
Kim agreed. “You know, Amy,” Kim said as she lay in freshly made bed, her head against the pillow and hands pulling at the comforter, “I’ve been thinking.”
I grinned. “Haven’t we both been doing a little too much of that lately?” I knew I had. Still, I had to ask. It’s part of the friendship code. “What about?”
“What about Dwayne?” She arranged the blue-gray comforter around her legs and now looked like a tightly wrapped, bedridden mummy.
I scrunched up my nose. “You like Dwa
yne?”
“No!” She giggled. “Do you suppose he could be the murderer?”
My hand rested on the doorknob. “He got here after the murder, remember?”
“Did he?” Kim’s eyes bored into mine. “Or did he murder Matt and then conveniently show up at the back door?”
OMG! Why hadn’t I thought of that?!
I said goodnight and headed to my room. I was still thinking about Kim’s last words when I heard the strange banging in the middle of the night. Why hadn’t I considered Dwayne Rogers? I’d considered Aaron Maddley, Mac MacDonald, and Robert LaChance . . . heck, at this point, I was even mildly considering Gertie Hammer after her weird appearance in the store and her offer to buy me out—but why not the burly trucker?
What if he’d been lying all along? How convenient would it be to show up after the murder and act all surprised? Did he know Matt? They were about the same age, so that was entirely possible.
I’d have to ask Chief Kennedy if he’d investigated Dwayne’s whereabouts at the time of the murder. I also wanted to know what he’d learned after interrogating Aaron. The man was walking around loose instead of locked up behind bars. What about those bloody clothes? That knife?
There was that noise again.
I rolled over onto my side, held my breath, and listened. Nothing. Sure, it only happens when I’m not trying to hear. I threw back the sheets and stuffed my feet into my slippers. I glanced at the clock. One freaking thirty. Lovely.
I was going to get to the bottom of this. Strong winds howled outside. That meant the storm was blowing out and cool, dry air was blowing in. Cash Calderon was right. Tomorrow would be bright and sunny. He’d telephoned me earlier and announced that, if all went well weather-wise, he’d be able to finish up the roof and start on the downstairs ceiling tomorrow morning—this morning, I realized dolefully.
I felt around for my robe and knotted it around my waist. I heard thumping upstairs. Either the tarp had come loose or Cash was up there fiddling with things to make sure nothing else got ruined. I’d find out soon enough.
