by Sharon Pape
I had just parked myself at the computer to look up the last two names from Ryan’s notes, while stroking a never-ending parade of cats, when Travis called. He wanted to know how my day went and if the bus tour met my expectations.
“It was a financial success,” I said. “A good day all around, except for the toddler who nearly wrecked the shop.” I spent a couple of minutes recounting the details. “How are things going up in Albany?”
“I actually had a couple minutes free, so I checked the public records to see if they were also deceased.”
“Didn’t they ever teach you in journalism not to bury the lead?”
“I must have cut class that day,” he said. I could hear the grin in his voice. “Now, would you like to know what I found?”
“By all means. You have the floor, sir.”
“Okay, Chris Dowland, from Montour Falls, died on January third, 2015, at the age of thirty-seven from blunt force trauma to the back of his skull.”
“I didn’t think the public records listed the cause of death.”
“They do if one has a friend with the right connections.”
“Say no more. Moving along, what about McFee?”
“Ronald McFee, from Hassettville. He was forty-one when he died on June sixteenth, 2016, of carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“Four men, one woman, all different ages, and from different towns,” I mused aloud. “Two were clearly murdered, though by different means.”
“The names on Ryan’s list have only two things in common,” Travis said. “They were all from Schuyler County and they’re all dead.”
“So Ryan’s file is a list of decedents. That’s not much to go on. If I picked five people at random, I’d probably find they had more in common than these five seem to. I can’t imagine what piqued Ryan’s interest.”
“He had a sort of sixth sense about these things,” Travis said. “‘A nose for news’ as they say. And I think his so-called accidental death is proof he was getting too close for the killer’s comfort.”
“We’re going to need a lot more information than the handful of names Ryan left in his notes if we’re ever going to figure out what he was investigating and why. I get that he didn’t like to talk about an investigation he was working on, but it seems as if he didn’t want anyone, including you, to figure out what it was. I don’t know why he bothered telling you where he kept the thumb drive. It’s close to useless without a Ryan Rosetta Stone to decipher it.” I heard the petulance in my tone and immediately regretted it. Nancy Drew would have been ashamed of me. “Sorry, Travis. It’s been a long day.”
“No apology necessary. I understand how frustrating it can be to have information that’s useless. Ryan was always a private kind of guy, but after his folks died, he got worse. He became secretive about the most ridiculous stuff. I figured it was because he couldn’t count on anything or anyone to have his back. I certainly didn’t help him feel welcome or safe in my family. As Ryan got older, I remember thinking he might be borderline paranoid. I asked my mother what she thought, but she wouldn’t discuss it with me. Anyway, she told me not to worry; she was on top of things. After we reconciled, I tried to talk to him about it, but he always put me off by joking. ‘Hey, just because I’m paranoid, doesn’t mean there aren’t people out to get me.’”
“But then why keep investigating the kind of people who really would come after him?” I asked. According to Travis, he’d made a career of tweaking some extremely dangerous noses. “It’s like poking a stick into a pile of rattlers to see if they’ll strike.”
“Look at it this way,” he said. “There are two ways to deal with paranoia. You can either hide under the bed or you can dedicate your life to exposing the bad guys. Ryan chose not to hide and that’s probably why he’s dead.”
“Given how little he left us to go on, we’ll have to talk to the families of the deceased to try to find some other commonalities.”
“Questioning family members who have lost someone is not my favorite investigative tool,” Travis said soberly. “It feels wrong, no matter how kind I try to be.”
“Something my aunt Tilly told me helped a lot in the last case.”
“Silly Tilly?” I pictured one of his eyebrows arching.
“Turns out there’s a wise side to her I never got to know when Morgana and Bronwen were alive.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “Lay some of that Tilly wisdom on me.”
“She told me that it’s more uncomfortable for us to raise the topic of the deceased than it is for the one in mourning. The grieving person usually finds solace in talking about their lost loved one.”
“That does make me feel a little better about contacting the families,” Travis said. “Maybe Tilly should add dispenser of wisdom to her resumé.”
We divvied up the list so I had three names and he had two. “I can handle all five if your real job needs you,” I assured him.
“I appreciate it, but I want to do some of the legwork in this case even if it means losing my beauty sleep. Besides you have a business to run too.”
* * * *
Elise Harkens came by the shop the next morning before opening, armed with a bag from the Breakfast Bar. Seeing her gave my spirit and my stomach a lift. I knew something was up the moment she walked in wearing makeup and high-heeled boots under serious pants, the kind you wear to church or an upscale restaurant. Or a job. “Do you have two minutes to talk?” she asked, dangling the bag under my nose as bribery.
By way of reply, I hiked myself onto the counter and patted the space beside me. Elise hopped up and set the bag between us.
“I’ve missed you,” I said.
She opened the bag and handed me a coffee and a bear claw. “That’s why I’m here. If we don’t catch each other up more often, we’ll need a month to do it.”
I removed the lid from my coffee and breathed in the heady aroma before taking a sip. “Is there a job I don’t know about?” I asked, too curious to wait until she brought it up.
“It sort of happened by accident,” she said. “You know I’ve been toying with the idea of going back to work. I don’t want to deplete my resources, and the money for the boys’ education has to remain sacrosanct.” She took a nibble of her pastry. “When I was up at the high school the other day, because Zach forgot his homework again, Lois Frame saw me and stopped to chat.” Elise read the question on my face and added, “She’s vice principal now. She said I saved her a phone call. It seems one of the English teachers went on maternity leave and her replacement quit the day before she was due to start. Some kind of family crisis. Lois asked if I might be interested. Since it was only for three months, she thought it would be a great way to ease back into teaching.”
“It does seem like a win-win,” I said. “If you enjoy it, you’ll know for sure you want to get back into teaching. If not, you only have to hang in there for three months while you contemplate other options. Seriously—what other job can you test drive?”
“That’s what I thought, so I said yes. I don’t start with my classes until tomorrow. Today is all the paperwork and a crash course on the curriculum, the school’s principles of education and teaching, yada, yada. I don’t have to be there until ten.” She sounded excited, but jumpy.
“Jitters over tomorrow?” I asked.
“Jitters on steroids. I haven’t been in front of a class in fifteen years. Plus Zach hates the idea of my working there even though I won’t be his teacher.”
“You wouldn’t be home in time for Noah if you had to commute to another high school.”
“He knows that, but he’s a teenager; he lives in the land of me, myself, and I. Communications with Earth are spotty at best.”
“I’m proud of you for not caving.”
Elise sighed. “Go me.” We were quiet for a bit, eating our bear claws and drinking our cof
fee. She broke the silence first. “You wouldn’t happen to have a little spell, something to prop up my confidence and make me fearless for the big day?”
There were a number of spells for courage and composure, but the spell to make one fearless was universally eschewed. Too many practitioners had tried it and wound up dead. A healthy dose of fear is a good thing, in spite of how uncomfortable it may feel. “The best spell I can give you is a calming spell,” I told her. “You already have more than enough courage and confidence; your nerves are simply blocking your access to them. Once you’re calmer, you’ll see that I’m right.”
“Do I need to write it down?”
“No, it’s really simple. Just look at the palm of your hand and repeat after me: ‘As I focus on my palm, I become relaxed and calm.’ Continue chanting it and looking at your palm until a feeling of peace comes over you. It’s a riff on repeating the sound ohm in meditation.”
“It’ll really work? Sorry—stupid question,” she said sheepishly. “You wouldn’t have given it to me if it didn’t work.”
“It does depend to a great degree on your input, your belief that the magick works.”
“I should know that by now,” she said, shaking her head.
“You do. You just need some centering.” The past five months had been hard on her. I don’t know if I would have handled things as well as she had.
“I’ll get there,” she said with her usual grit. “You’re up now, lady. What’s new? What’s going on with that handsome reporter of yours?” One of the things I loved about Elise was the honest interest she took in her friends no matter how deeply mired she might be in her own morass. As I ran through the investigation to date, her eyebrows cinched together. I knew that look. She was trying to tease something more from the few facts I’d laid out for her.
“Elise, you’re going to be late,” I said, suddenly noticing the time. Jolted out of her thoughts, she hopped off the counter, pulled on her coat, grabbed her purse, and was out the door in less than a minute. Too many appointments were casualties of our time together. We really had to start setting an alarm on our phones or get a good old-fashioned timer with a blaring bell.
Chapter 12
An influx of guests from the ski resort took up most of my lunch hour. They arrived as I was hanging the I’ll-be-back clock in the window. I couldn’t afford to close my door on that much possible revenue and word-of-mouth, so I set the clock aside and unlocked the door. They were a lively, raucous bunch who’d spent the morning on the slopes and were looking for a diversion before a second go-round in the afternoon. Most of them had clearly thrown back a hot toddy or two by the fire, before hitting Main Street. Their faces were red from a combination of the cold and the alcohol. They spent freely on gifts for the holidays as well as on products for their own consumption.
By the time they departed, I had ten minutes left. Grab lunch or try to set up an interview with a family member of one of the deceased? The phone call won. Since memory can fade with time, I’d decided to start with Martin Frank, the victim who’d been gone the longest. I wanted to speak to his family before their memories of the event deteriorated any further. Finding the phone number for his wife was harder than I anticipated and probably for the same reason I’d chosen the Frank family—six years had passed since his murder. There was no listing for Frank online. It was possible the number was unlisted. It was also possible that Martin’s wife and children had moved away or that she was now Mrs. Somebody Else. I used up my ten minutes with nothing to show for it. Since no one was beating down my door to come in, I stopped into Tilly’s shop before reopening, to ask if she had any ideas on how to locate the family or at least a working phone number.
“White magick won’t help you,” she said, picking up the plates from her last high tea. “It boils down to an invasion of privacy.” I wasn’t surprised by her answer, but I was disappointed. I took the teacups and utensils and followed her into the kitchen. Merlin was on his kitchen stool engrossed in a game on his iPad.
“A few twists and tweaks have been known to change black magick to a dark grayish hue,” he said without looking up.
“No black magick,” Tilly and I said in unison. Opening that particular box was reputed to be as fraught with danger and evil as the one in Pandora’s keeping. I, for one, had no desire to test that theory.
“There is a more mundane solution to your problem,” Tilly said. “You could ask Paul Curtis for his help.”
“I can’t. He’s got a crush on me and I don’t want to manipulate him that way.”
“It’s not like it would be the first time,” she murmured, walking past me to finish clearing the table.
I was taken aback, realizing Tilly set me up to see how I would react. It was particularly unsettling, because she’d never been judgmental of me in the past. Maybe she felt obliged to assume Morgana’s role now as the eldest living member of our family.
“I still feel guilty about using him,” I said, partly to show my aunt that I’d learned from my mistake and partly because it was the truth. “He’s too nice a guy to treat that way. He could get in serious trouble if someone found out he’d bent the privacy rules. He might even lose his job.”
Tilly returned carrying the teapot and a plate of leftover pastries, which Merlin lifted deftly as she went by. She didn’t miss a step. They had their routine down pat. She emptied the last of the tea into the sink and turned to face me. “My last suggestion is for you to speak to Beverly Rupert.”
I groaned. No one in my family liked her. “How can Beverly help?”
“She’s a hairdresser. If she doesn’t know the Frank family, then she probably knows someone who does. Or that person knows someone who knows someone and on down the insidious grapevine of gossip.”
“But then my interest in the Frank family will become the next topic for the grapevine,” I protested. Three options and not one of them decent.
Tilly had turned on the water and was hand washing the delicate china she used exclusively for her teas. “In life you’ve got to pay to play,” she said, raising her voice over the noise of the running water. I thanked her for the suggestion and as I passed Merlin, I plucked a miniature éclair from the plate in his hand. What’s good for the gander is good for the goose.
Between customers, I called Beverly. She said she didn’t know the family, but she thought her cousin did. She’d call back when she had an answer one way or the other. I didn’t doubt it, because that’s when she’d take her pound of flesh.
* * * *
Morgana popped in while I was making the cats’ dinner. I heard the electrical crackle preceding her appearance before I turned around. Her cloud was slate blue, heavy on the gray, the dismal color of rain clouds and sadness. “Kailyn,” she said solemnly, “please extend our condolences to Travis. We just heard and we’re very sorry about the loss of his brother. We hope you’re successful in finding justice for him.” It wasn’t the first time I was struck by how weird it was for the dead to be expressing their sympathies on another’s passing. Wouldn’t it be more comforting for them to say something upbeat like “no worries —we’ll keep tabs on Jack or Jill until you get here?” Maybe that simply wasn’t allowed. Beyond the veil, there seemed to be any number of rules regarding how the deceased were permitted to interact with the living.
“Where’s Bronwen tonight?” I asked, since they seemed to hang out together the way they had in life.
“Taking what you might call a course in humility,” my mother said. “More than overdue if you ask me.” I wondered why my mother wasn’t taking the course with her, but I held my tongue. Who knew what courses I’d need when I got there?
I was heading up to bed when Beverly called. Ordinarily, if I saw her name come up on Caller ID at such a late hour, I’d let it go to voice mail. A dose of Beverly at bedtime was not conducive to a good night’s rest. But I was too curious about what she’d
discovered to ignore it.
Chapter 13
After a detailed five-minute monologue, listing every call she placed to this relative and that friend, Beverly was proud to report that she had the information I’d requested. I made a big fuss about how much I appreciated her diligent work on my behalf.
“You’re welcome. Not many people would go to such lengths for someone who was barely a friend,” she added pointedly.
I knew exactly where she was headed and decided to get it over with, so I could go to bed. “How can I ever repay your kindness?” I asked, sounding like a hammy actress in a bad soap opera.
Beverly didn’t seem to notice. She must have been focused on the word repay to the exclusion of everything else. “If you really mean that,” she said, “I would welcome a gift certificate for your shop, assuming you’re no longer having problems with, how shall I put it…quality control?”
It was uncanny how she always managed to say something irritating or downright obnoxious. “I haven’t had any complaints,” I said, trying to keep sarcasm out of my tone. I had no intention of telling her that Merlin’s arrival seemed to have stabilized our magick to a great degree. “I’ll put the gift certificate in the mail tomorrow.”
“No need,” she chirped. “I’ll stop by for it and do some shopping while I’m there.”
“That works.” Now I just had to figure out the amount of the gift certificate. Too much and she’d be fawning all over me and bragging about it to everyone in town who might then expect a similar gratuity for any sort of help they rendered. Too little and I could forget about ever asking for her help again. Beverly was one of those what-have-you-done-for-me-lately people. I settled on fifty dollars, thinking I might throw in a few extra free items when she came to the register, depending on how she behaved.
* * * *
The first thought to pop into my head when I awoke at seven a.m. wasn’t about dreading Beverly’s visit. It was about making the phone call Beverly had made possible. The number she gave me was for Nina Frank Lewis. Nina had married a divorced podiatrist, barely a year after Martin died, and moved into his house in Watkins Glen. According to Beverly, there was some talk about Nina being the reason for the foot doc’s divorce. Leave it to Beverly to get all the dirt.
