by Peg Cochran
“Was the ME able to tell you anything?”
Frank took a sip of his iced tea and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Not very much, I’m afraid.” He frowned. “There’s no obvious evidence of any kind of foul play—no knife wounds, bullet wounds, broken bones . . . nothing. The only thing the ME found was a bruise on the back of his neck that vaguely suggested a thumbprint. But whether that has anything to do with Travis’s death, he can’t say.”
Frank massaged his forehead with his fingertips. “We know it can’t have been an accident. Not with Travis strung up on that pole like a scarecrow.”
“So he couldn’t tell you a thing?”
Frank shrugged. “Nothing useful. He said rigor had barely set in, so Travis hadn’t been dead all that long. But we already knew that from your description of his movements.” Frank drained his glass, making a slurping sound as he reached the bottom. “Hopefully he’ll be able to tell us more after the autopsy.”
6
Dear Reader,
Have you tried roasting vegetables? Take it from me, they are ten times better that way. Roasting brings out their sweetness and caramelizes their exterior. You can use almost any vegetable you fancy and even Brussels sprouts become a delectable side dish. It’s really simple to do, too. Just be sure not to crowd your baking sheet or the veggies will steam instead of roast. You can add herbs and spices, use different types of oil, add aromatics like garlic, ginger, and shallots, and finish them off with something crunchy like crisp bacon, fried onions, or nuts and seeds. Believe me, you’ll no longer have to beg your children (and maybe your hubby) to eat their vegetables when you prepare them this way.
After Frank left, Shelby changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and decided to tackle the dishes. She didn’t want to leave them sitting out all night. They would be harder to clean in the morning, and besides, she hated waking up to a sink full of food-encrusted plates.
Shelby slipped a large plain glass bowl into the sudsy water and began to scrub it. Suddenly she pulled it out of the water and held it up, looking at it. It wasn’t her bowl—someone must have brought it in by mistake. It looked like it matched the other bowls the caterers had been using. Shelby finished washing it, dried it, and put it aside. She’d take it over to Grilling Gals next time she went into town.
Shelby had just finished putting away the last serving spoon when there was a frantic knocking on the front door.
She put down her dish towel. Maybe it was Frank with more questions?
But it was Kelly standing on her doorstep, no longer in her wedding dress but in her usual uniform of faded and well-worn jeans and a navy T-shirt with Lovett Feed Store in white letters on the front. The outfit looked incongruous with her unaccustomed makeup and her hair, which was still in its elegant French braid.
Kelly’s eyes were red and her mascara was smeared.
“Oh, Shelby,” she wailed as Shelby let her in. “It’s all my fault.” She put her hands over her face, and Shelby could see her shoulders shaking.
“If only I hadn’t asked the band to play at our wedding,” Kelly said through her fingers.
“It’s not your fault Travis was murdered,” Shelby exclaimed. “You can’t possibly think that.”
“It’s not that.” Kelly let her hands drop into her lap. “The police came by—Seth was putting our suitcase in the trunk of his car, and I was checking that all the lights were off—and asked us to come down to the station to answer some questions.”
“They’re talking to everybody.”
“Maybe. But I’ve never been asked to actually go to the station.”
“I’m sure it was simply more convenient for the police that way. Did you talk to Frank?”
“Yes. He tried to put me at ease, but I was still so scared my hands were shaking.” Kelly pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. “And they had Seth and me in separate rooms, which made it worse.”
Shelby reached out and squeezed Kelly’s hand.
“They asked me about the hat that had been on Travis’s head. They showed me a picture.” Kelly shivered. “I couldn’t see anything but the hat, but still . . . I could just imagine . . .
“And they asked if I recognized the hat.” Kelly twisted the hem of her shirt between her fingers. “It was Seth’s hat. A goofy-looking thing. He bought it on his trip to Australia before he started medical school. He wore it whenever he had to be out in the sun.” She touched her face. “You know how pale he is.”
“He was wearing it while we were setting up, wasn’t he?” Shelby remembered the hat—khaki with a floppy brim.
“Yes. He said he left it on one of the tables and forgot about it. Someone obviously took it.”
“Did you tell the police that?”
Kelly’s face reddened. “I didn’t.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. She looked down at her hands. “I didn’t tell them it was Seth’s hat.”
By now Kelly had twisted the whole bottom half of her T-shirt around her left fist.
“Seth must have told them it was his, though, if they asked him about it. And I don’t see why they wouldn’t have asked him if they asked you.”
Kelly shrugged. “I suppose so.” She peered up at Shelby with a pleading look on her face. “I couldn’t tell them. Not after that story Seth told me about him and Travis . . . What if Seth had something to do with it? I can’t help seeing the expression on his face when he first saw Travis. And how angry he was.”
“Seth’s a pretty rational guy. He wouldn’t let something that happened so many years ago drive him to murder. And on his wedding day?”
Kelly gulped and fiddled with the frayed hem of her T-shirt.
“Come on, Kelly. You know Seth better than that. You have to know he would never do something so . . . so heinous as murder.”
Kelly sniffed loudly. “You’re right.” She gave a tiny smile. “I do know Seth better than that. I guess I needed someone to remind me.”
Shelby reached over and squeezed Kelly’s hand. “The police will find out who did it. Don’t worry.”
* * *
• • •
St. Andrews was buzzing with talk of the murder the next day. It didn’t take long for news that dramatic to circulate among the residents of Lovett. Shelby often thought their communication system was far swifter and more accurate than any of the latest technology.
The buzzing inside the church before the Sunday service began reached a fever pitch as Shelby slipped into her accustomed pew, and didn’t stop until the choir processed in and drowned out any attempts at further conversation with their strong voices.
Mrs. Willoughby, the church secretary, had organized a craft fair after the service to help raise money for the church, which badly needed a new roof and numerous other equally urgent repairs that the parish could ill afford. She was very efficient in an officious way, which often put her at odds with the rest of the congregation.
As soon as the service was over, Billy took off with two of his friends and headed toward the grassy area between the church and the rectory, where they began an impromptu game of tag. Shelby headed down the sloping hill alongside the church where booths were set up featuring crafts of every sort, from handmade belts to macramé dream catchers. The St. Andrews knitting group, of which Shelby was a somewhat reluctant member, had their own booth, where they displayed hand-knitted baby blankets and caps as well as adult-sized scarves, mittens, and gloves.
The day was overcast with such high humidity it made everything wet. Shelby’s white blouse was damp in patches, and her pleated cotton skirt stuck to the backs of her legs, making her feel decidedly uncomfortable.
“At least it’s not raining,” Mrs. Willoughby said as she approached Shelby on the lawn. “But it would have been nice if it had been as fine as it was yesterday.” She frowned. “What a shame that lovely wedding you planned was
ruined by that young man getting himself killed.”
Shelby didn’t think Travis had exactly gotten himself killed as Mrs. Willoughby put it, but she decided it would probably be politic to not point that out.
“I imagine the police must have arrested the culprit by now. Was it some vagrant passing by who thought he might take advantage of the opportunity to relieve the young man of his wallet?”
Shelby had to smile. Mrs. Willoughby was quite possibly the only person she knew—or had ever known—who would use the word vagrant. Dear Reader, the word makes me think of a dusty old volume by Charles Dickens or George Eliot.
“I honestly don’t know,” Shelby said, removing a strand of hair from where it had stuck to her forehead.
Mrs. Willoughby frowned again and gave Shelby a severe look. “But surely with your brother-in-law on the force, you must have some news.”
“I’m afraid not,” Shelby said, attempting to inch away from Mrs. Willoughby.
Mrs. Willoughby frowned again—even more sternly this time—and fiddled with the jet beads around her neck.
“You’re so good at solving mysteries.” Mrs. Willoughby patted Shelby on the arm.
Shelby opened her mouth to protest, but Mrs. Willoughby sailed on undeterred. She lowered her voice. “We have another mystery here in Lovett that I hope you will look into for us.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
It couldn’t be another murder, Shelby thought. She’d have known about that by now.
“This is just between you and me. It can’t go any further.” Mrs. Willoughby lowered her face so close to Shelby’s that Shelby could see the wiry white hairs protruding from Mrs. Willoughby’s chin. “But I happened to overhear the reverend and that woman talking—”
“Isabel Stone?”
Mrs. Willoughby’s nostrils flared. “Yes. Her.” She took a deep, fluttery breath. “I couldn’t hear every word they said, of course. They were in the reverend’s office and the door was closed.”
Dear Reader, I am quite sure Mrs. Willoughby had a glass pressed to the wall.
“But it sounded as if . . .” Mrs. Willoughby stopped. She made a noise like she was choking. “It sounded as if they are planning on getting married.”
“That’s wonderful,” Shelby said without thinking.
Mrs. Willoughby reared back as if Shelby were a rattlesnake about to strike.
“Wonderful? How can you say that? We know nothing about that woman. Nothing. Nothing whatsoever.”
“Don’t you think Reverend Mather is old enough to make his own decisions?”
Mrs. Willoughby dismissed that idea with a derogatory snort. “Daniel? He fell for Prudence, his first wife, didn’t he? When everyone else could see her for what she was. A troublemaker and a busybody. No wonder she got herself killed.”
That wasn’t exactly true, Shelby thought. Prudence had fooled plenty of people.
“Before Daniel makes another mistake, we need to know more about Isabel Stone.”
“Like what?” Shelby pictured Mrs. Willoughby demanding an entire dossier on the woman from birth to the present time.
“Well, where she comes from . . . who her people are . . . things like that. We certainly don’t want some snake in our midst.”
“I hardly think—”
But Mrs. Willoughby was already shaking her head, setting her chins wagging. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she said, tapping Shelby smartly on the arm. “We need your help.”
“Me?” Shelby pointed to herself. “I don’t see how I can help.”
“You know how to find out . . . things. You’ve done it before,” Mrs. Willoughby said in an accusatory tone.
“Yes, but—”
“You have to help us. I’m appealing to you as a member of St. Andrews Church.”
Shelby sighed. “What is it you want me to do?”
“Find out what you can about the woman. Put our minds at rest.”
Shelby didn’t think anything was going to put Mrs. Willoughby’s mind at rest. She hadn’t liked Isabel from the moment Isabel set foot in St. Andrews Church, and Shelby doubted anything was going to change her mind.
But Shelby also knew it was useless to argue. Mrs. Willoughby was known for always getting her own way and for good reason.
“Fine,” Shelby said finally. “I’ll see what I can find out. But I can’t make any promises.”
Mrs. Willoughby beamed. “Thank you, dear. We’ll all feel so much better when we know the truth.”
Maybe the truth was simply that Isabel was a completely normal, honorable, and likable middle-aged lady, Shelby thought.
“I’d better be going. I promised I would buy Billy a cupcake from the bakery stall.”
“Let me know when you have some information,” Mrs. Willoughby called after her as Shelby walked away.
Shelby passed the St. Andrews knitting group’s booth and felt a pang of conscience. All the members had worked so hard to have items available for the fair, and Shelby hadn’t been able to contribute a thing. Her knitting hadn’t gotten any better during the course of the year, although she’d tried her best. The scarf she was knitting with the intention of offering it for sale at the fair had turned out uneven and pocked with holes where she’d dropped stitches. It certainly wasn’t something anyone would pay money for unless perhaps the shopper was going for a seriously Goth look.
Several people approached Shelby as she made her way through the crowd, and she did her best to avoid conversations about Travis’s murder, but of course it was the only thing people wanted to talk about.
She was heading toward a booth where they were selling handmade beaded jewelry when she spotted a face in the crowd that looked familiar although she couldn’t immediately place the person.
As she got closer, she realized it was Paislee Fields, the girl who had performed with Travis at Kelly’s wedding. She was wearing a flowing peasant blouse and had a stack of handmade-looking bracelets dangling from her left arm.
“You probably don’t remember me,” Shelby said, but Paislee interrupted her.
“I do. You’re the lady from the farm, right?”
“How are you doing?” Shelby said. Paislee looked as if she hadn’t slept very much the previous night.
Paislee shrugged. “Okay, I guess. It’s been a shock—Travis dying like that. We hadn’t known each other all that long, but still, working together so closely, we got to know each other quickly.” She dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her blouse. “It didn’t help that it was so noisy last night at that motel over on the highway.” She pointed in back of her. “Trucks going by all night long.” She shuddered. “The police won’t let us leave. We had to cancel our gig in South Bend.”
“I’m sorry.”
Paislee shrugged again and made a face. “There’s nothing to do here and the desk clerk mentioned this fair.” She waved a paper bag toward Shelby. “I bought some earrings and a necklace. I like this handmade stuff.” She touched the bracelets on her wrist.
The clouds had thinned and the sun peeked through in spots, steam rising from the damp ground. Shelby fanned herself with her hand. She felt the hair around her face curling in the humidity.
“Do you need a ride or . . . or anything?” Shelby said.
“No, but thanks. Cody brought me. I suppose I should get going. I’m sure he’s bored waiting for me.”
“He works awfully hard, I noticed.”
Paislee rolled her eyes. “Travis treated him awfully bad sometimes.” A faint blush colored her cheeks. “Cody has a crush on me and Travis teased him about it.”
“He must have resented that.”
“I don’t know. Cody’s a good sport. I don’t think he minded.”
Dear Reader, I seriously doubt that.
“What about you and Travis? Were you—”
<
br /> “An item?” Paislee finished for her. “We sing together and yeah, we’ve been together on and off. When I first joined the group, I started going out with Cody, but then Travis started paying attention to me, and, well, he was hard to resist. Know what I mean?”
Shelby nodded. “I’m sorry. This must be so difficult for you—Travis dying the way he did.”
Paislee braced her thin shoulders. “I don’t know. After what Travis did . . . well, maybe he had it coming.”
“What do you mean?”
Paislee’s face closed down. “Nothing. I shouldn’t have said that.” She looked around. “Cody must be wondering where I am.”
She turned around and quickly disappeared into the crowd.
What had Paislee meant by saying Travis had it coming to him? How much did Cody resent Travis’s teasing? Not to mention the fact that Travis had stolen Paislee away from Cody.
Maybe Cody minded more than he let on and had been only waiting for a chance to get even. And that chance had come yesterday.
* * *
• • •
Billy walked in the house when they got home from the fair and before Shelby could say anything, he’d bolted through the mudroom door and outside to play. Amelia hadn’t wanted to go in the first place and was up in her room. Shelby knew without even looking that she was probably lying on her bed texting her friends.
Shelby went upstairs to change. The temperature got warmer and warmer the higher she climbed. She peeled off her damp blouse and skirt and kicked off her shoes, exchanging them for a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and her gardening clogs. She grabbed a hair elastic off the dresser and pulled her hair back into a makeshift ponytail. It felt good to get it off the back of her neck.
Shelby went into the bathroom and splashed some cold water on her face before going downstairs and outside to her herb patch. She was thinking about Mrs. Willoughby and the promise she had managed to wrangle from Shelby to pry into poor Isabel Stone’s life. Isabel was simply minding her own business—which was what Mrs. Willoughby ought to be doing. If Reverend Mather wanted to date Isabel, that was his choice. He was a grown man.
