by Linda Lovely
Turned out, Mom had practically worn out her speed dial calling in favors. One of the EMS responders she knew gave her a blow-by-blow of the futile efforts to revive Nancy Watson.
“They got to Hands On about four fifteen,” Mom said, “responding to a call from a receptionist who claimed Watson was foaming at the mouth when she staggered to the front desk and collapsed. Even though EMS got there in under five minutes, CPR was a no go. She was already dead.”
My hand flew to my mouth. “Holy Swiss cheese. No wonder the sheriff came calling. At four o’clock, Nancy was screaming at me in front of the store. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect me.”
Though Mom had tapped another source to get the eventual lowdown on the autopsy, she had no clout with the Ardon County Sheriff’s Department. Her inability to sniff out details of the homicide investigation frustrated her.
“Poisoning seems to be the likely cause of death,” she said.
Dad’s headshake said he disagreed. “Even the fastest acting poisons—at least ones folks in Ardon County might lay hands on—take a lot longer than thirty minutes to kill someone. It would take hours, more likely days, before any of the poisonous plants I grow could kill off a healthy adult.”
“Well, thank heaven for that,” Mom said. “Once the contents of Nancy’s stomach are analyzed, it should put an end to this nonsense about Brie poisoning Nancy with goodies from your garden. I’ll bet the woman ingested one of those new synthetic drugs. Lots of options. The EMS guys bagged what looked like brownie crumbs in the break room. The drug might have been baked into a treat.”
“Wouldn’t that still make Brie a suspect?” Dad asked.
“What?” My mouth dropped open. “You think being a chef makes me a suspect? Even ten-year-olds can bake brownies.”
“No, Honey,” Mom answered. “You’re a suspect because you were the next to last person to see Nancy alive, and you could have brought in a drug-laced treat.”
I rolled my eyes. “Like that woman would have scarfed down anything I brought her.”
Dad’s fingers drummed the tabletop. “You lied about your name. The sheriff can argue Nancy ate your treat because she didn’t know you were a Hooker. He’ll probably claim you can access designer drugs through your Asheville pals. In these parts, Asheville’s practically synonymous with Sodom and Gomorrah.”
“So when can I expect my arrest?”
“Don’t worry.” Mom’s tone sounded like she was trying to talk a potential suicide down from a ledge. “There’s no actual evidence and no motive. Why would you kill Nancy Watson?”
Eva jumped in. “It’s about time someone asked that. Who would want to kill Nancy Watson? She’s a nobody. The sheriff will probably put the floozy on my enemies’ list for sleeping with my husband. Really? If I’d wanted revenge, she’d have been planted six feet under decades ago.”
Dad tapped his spoon against his coffee cup. He appeared deep in thought. “There must be some tie between the discovery of Jed’s skeleton and Nancy’s murder. The timing can’t be coincidental.”
“I agree,” Eva said. “Maybe Nancy knew who really killed Jed, and the murderer thought she’d rat him out. Or she killed Jed and her accomplice figured she’d squeal. Same motive.”
“I like it,” Dad said.
I sighed. “Wish I shared your enthusiasm since it drops me from the suspect list. But unless Nancy was one heck of an actress, she truly believed Eva killed Jed.”
“No point speculating until we get the toxicology results.” Mom shrugged and turned toward Eva. “I brought back your photo album. Sheriff Jones copied a lot of old pictures, especially ones with names or notes on the back. He didn’t put the photos back in the albums. You might sort through and see if you can figure out why he’d be interested in a bunch of old photos.”
We’d progressed from Nancy’s death to the sheriff’s efforts to nail Aunt Eva for Jed’s murder. Seemed a good time to ask Eva some questions and share my research plans. I figured not even my overprotective mom could see any harm in my digging through Ardon County deeds, tax, and court records.
“Eva, what did you think when Jed disappeared? Did you believe he was dead?” I asked.
My aunt tilted her head back. Her eyes closed. “After about a week I knew he was dead. It was more than a feeling.”
She massaged her forehead, then opened her eyes. “I searched his things and found a strong box. Used bolt cutters to open it. Four hundred dollars inside—most likely poker winnings he hadn’t had time to lose again. Jed would never have abandoned so much cash voluntarily.”
“Did you suspect murder?” I was curious.
Eva shrugged. “I thought it possible. I knew he kept unsavory company, but I never met any of his gambling buddies. Jed thought his wife’s duty was to cook, clean, serve as a punching bag, and never, ever question him.”
Dad frowned. “I always wondered. Given you’d been so miserable here, why didn’t you just come home to Iowa? Why stay?”
Eva slowly shook her head. “I used that four hundred dollars to pay back taxes and get the farm out of foreclosure. I always loved this land. It’s beautiful, peaceful. I’d made a few women friends—Mollye’s mom for one. They suggested I could board horses and raise goats to make ends meet. When Lilly arrived to help, a happier future seemed possible.” A few tears meandered down Eva’s cheeks. She briskly swatted them away. “Enough talk about the past.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “But I plan to spend some time at the courthouse, see what information I can dig up. As a former banker, I know old records sometimes spill forgotten secrets.”
“Try to avoid lying about who you are, Brie,” Mom chastised. “That will always get you in trouble.”
“Lesson learned the hard way. If asked, I will promptly identify myself as Brie Hooker, overall nice person, non-killer, and amateur snoop.”
SIXTEEN
I was clearing the breakfast dishes when Mollye phoned with a lunch invitation. Faster than speeding Facebook, the small town grapevine had alerted her that Nancy Watson’s death coincided with my rash visit to Hands On. Heck, she probably knew what I’d worn and how much change I’d had in my pocket.
“I want to hear all the details, girlfriend,” Mollye chirped.
I’d willingly dish about my pink toenails and Nancy’s angry outburst in exchange for Mollye’s insider intel. Surely she’d have the hometown down-and-dirty on scandals present and past.
“Can we meet at one?” I figured my aunt’s plans for our morning would keep me busy past noon.
“Works for me. How about Abby’s Diner just down the block from the courthouse?”
“Excellent.” That fit my plans perfectly.
After I hung up, I struggled to turn my thoughts away from dead bodies and impending incarceration to concentrate on Udderly revenue and expenses. Aunt Eva loathed pencil-pushing endeavors. The computer age expanded her hatred to all things electronic. She’d rather muck stalls or coax a mule into taking a pill the size of Nebraska than sit in front of a computer monitor. Since I had an MBA and banking experience, she jumped at the chance to put me in charge of anything related to computers, accounting, and banking—tasks that were once Lilly’s exclusive domains.
I soon discovered the breadth of Lilly’s responsibilities. She filled online orders, maintained Udderly’s website, and registered newborn goats with breeder organizations. Who knew the hairy little kids had birth certificates as well as ear or tail tattoos for lifetime positive IDs? Next thing you know some well-meaning politician will decide we should tattoo human kiddos, too.
Eva plopped down beside me and spieled off a list of wholesale accounts longer than my ingredient list for vegetarian paella. A four-hundred goat herd spawned a ton of paperwork. Looked like I’d be spending hours superglued to the computer. Realizing those hours wouldn’t be spent cleaning goat udders was a definite mood
lifter.
I was no animal whisperer. On prior Udderly visits, I’d learned goats, ponies, dogs, chickens, pigs, and the rest of the barnyard menagerie were less likely than humans to do what I asked. Sometimes they even punctuated their refusals with head butts, kicks, drool, and snorts. Bottom line: my new duties felt like a major promotion.
At noon, Eva closed a large wholesale order book and massaged the back of her neck, “I’ve had all I can take for one day.”
“Agreed. My eyes are crossing.”
I helped corral the papers scattered across the table and logged off my laptop, which now served as a repository for QuickBooks and Udderly’s accounting files.
“I’m glad you’re tackling this.” The dismissive sweep of Eva’s hand included every scrap of paper on the table. “Bores me to tears. Computers hate me. With me at the keyboard, what Sis called ‘The Blue Screen of Death’ had more lives than a barnyard cat.”
I smiled. “No problem. Lilly backed up to the hard drive and the cloud. I’ll do the same. The Udderly website is really clever. Did Lilly design it?”
Eva’s eyes glistened. “Yes. It was her baby.” These days as she wrestled with grief, her tears always seemed to lurk, waiting for another trigger.
“I want to leave all the photos of Lilly on the web,” she added. “I love that video of her playing with last year’s batch of kids.”
“No problem. Lilly did a fantastic job,” I agreed. “Anything you need from town?”
My aunt shook her head. “I’m heading to town, too. Since we’re both bound for the big city, let’s stop by First Bank of Ardon and get you listed on Udderly’s bank accounts. Should only take a minute or two.”
Eva and I parked side by side in Ardon’s town square. The county courthouse sat on an expansive green boxed in by four busy commercial streets. Buildings included Ardon’s mainstay banks, a sprinkling of retail shops, an eclectic mix of restaurants, the offices of long-standing societies like the Daughters of the Confederacy and the Masonic Lodge, plus the offices of lawyers eager to be within walking distance of a revenue source.
Eva ushered me inside Udderly’s bank and led me toward a windowed corner with “Office of the President” etched on the open door’s glass panel. Inside I spotted a roly-poly bald guy hunched over an old-timey mahogany desk. I presumed baldy was the bank president. The secretary’s desk guarding his office sat empty, leaving him easy prey for unhappy depositors.
Eva rapped on the doorframe. “Hello, Victor. Have a minute?”
He peered over half glasses parked on the end of an oily nose. His rheumy eyes looked almost colorless. He blinked rapidly as Eva marched in. I followed in her determined wake.
“What can I do for you, Miss Hooker?”
The way he said “Miss Hooker” sounded just shy of hostile. My aunt introduced me, punctuating his full name, Victor Caldwell. At least he wasn’t a Watson, unless he was related to the enemy camp by marriage. Half the county’s population seemed to be.
“I want to add my niece’s name to Udderly’s corporate accounts and give her full authority without a counter signature,” Eva said.
Victor pushed up his glasses and licked his lips. His expression reminded me of someone caught farting in an elevator. Why did he look so guilty?
“Something wrong?” Eva asked.
Two open files sat on his leather-bound ink blotter. When I glanced at them, he quickly snapped both closed and shoved one under the other. Despite his shell game, I read the tab on the bottom file—“Burks Holdings”—before he hid it. His pudgy fingers scampered to cover the top file’s tab, but he wasn’t quick enough. A neatly typed label announced the thick bundle of papers belonged to Udderly Kidding Dairy.
Why was Udderly’s file open on his desk?
“Well, aren’t you efficient?” Eva asked. “I see you already have our corporate folder on your desk. Were you expecting us?”
Apparently she shared my suspicion that the file’s appearance wasn’t coincidence. Eva hadn’t told Victor we were coming.
The banker’s lips twitched. “Uh, no, well, uh, I had an inquiry about your account.”
“Do tell.” My aunt’s tone could form frost on a mug of hot tea. “Do you routinely give out our banking information without our authorization?”
“Certainly not,” Victor huffed. “But we cooperate with the authorities.”
“Let me guess,” Eva continued, “Sheriff Jones wanted copies of all our banking records?”
Victor straightened. “I don’t believe I should answer.”
“Well, I don’t believe Udderly Kidding Dairy should bank here,” she replied.
Victor sputtered. “We’re only following standard practices.”
“Of course, you are.” Eva’s volume hitched up a notch. “Which makes me wonder if your standard practices are legal.”
A middle-aged frump in a boxy suit rapped her knuckles on the doorframe. Her eyes were wide, her lips puckered in a disapproving moue. Had to be Victor’s pit bull secretary. I wondered if the lady was huffy because Eva’s loud complaint had aroused the curiosity of several customers in the teller lines.
“Can I be of help?” the frump asked.
“You betcha.” Eva turned her back on Victor. “Please provide us with the necessary documents to give my niece full access to our corporate accounts. I’d also like whatever paperwork we need to close all our accounts in the near future.”
Though the secretary’s eyebrows shot up, she simply nodded. “This way, please. I can print what you need at my desk.”
The banker stood but remained mute. Neither he nor Eva muttered a goodbye.
Ten minutes later I’d put my John Hancock on five multi-page documents. As a former banker, I knew the gist of the cover-your-ass wording, so I didn’t need to read the small font boilerplate. We left the bank with copies of the forms and the raft of paperwork required to close or transfer our accounts. Eva didn’t speak until we reached the sidewalk.
“I wanted to deck that pompous windbag,” she grumbled. “Never trusted him. Every time I phoned, I could tell I was on speakerphone. What kind of idiot banker is too lazy to lift a phone to his ear so people won’t overhear his client’s business? Think I’ll sic your mother on him. Bet he gave the sheriff our banking records without any court order.”
“You’re right, and I agree about moving the banking business. But could we wait to switch banks until I figure out how Lilly set up the accounts? I don’t want to create any problems with direct deposits or automatic payments.”
Eva sighed. “Good thinking. Another reason I’m lucky you’re handling the finances. I’m just angry. My whole life suddenly seems to be everyone else’s affair.”
“Did you notice that other file on Victor’s desk?” I asked. “He had the Udderly file and another one sitting next to it like he was doing some sort of comparison. Do you do business with Burks Holdings?”
“Burks Holdings? Ha. Not hardly. That’s the company developing Sunrise Ridge, a hoity-toity mountain resort. Cheapest homes start at a million. Heard a real estate agent say the last Sunrise house sold for ten mil. A lot of locals aren’t thrilled with the development, but I’ll hold my nose if they want to place an order for a few thousand dollars’ worth of goat cheese.”
I shrugged. “Maybe it was a coincidence Victor had both folders out. But it sure looked like his beady little eyes were darting back and forth between the two when we walked in. If I have time this afternoon, I’ll look up Burks Holdings. If it’s an LLC or a C corporation, it has to be registered.”
“Glad you know how to dig out information.” Eva hugged me. “But don’t spend all your time inhaling dust mites in the courthouse basement. Have some fun with Mollye. I’ll see you back at the farm.”
My aunt climbed into her truck and waved goodbye.
I couldn’t wait to hear Mom’s
take on the sheriff snooping into Udderly’s bank records. Were legal niceties like court orders overlooked in tiny burgs with pretty town squares?
SEVENTEEN
I spotted Mollye’s purple-streaked hair the minute I entered the diner. To make sure I saw her, she waved her arms like she was guiding a jumbo airliner to its gate. The bracelets circling her pudgy arms jangled like muted cymbals. Her jolly welcome made me grin.
“Hey, girlfriend,” Mollye greeted as I slid into a seat across from her. “Hope you can find something you like on the menu.”
“No problem. I’ve been here with Aunt Eva. The vegetarian hoagie is great, and it’s served on ciabatta bread, a vegan favorite. I just ask them to hold the cheese.”
Mollye shook her head. “Don’t know how you do it. I could probably give up meat with the help of a good twelve-step program, but cheese and ice cream? Never.”
I had to laugh. “I only needed eleven steps. Luckily, I’ve found tasty substitutes like cashew and almond blends that work in almost any recipe calling for cheese.”
A waitress decked out in retro white-apron attire came to take our order.
“Hi, Madge.” Mollye smiled. “Did your mom like that pottery bowl you bought for her birthday?”
“Sure did,” the waitress answered.
“Madge, this is my friend Brie. Just moved here. I’ll let her order first.” Mollye chuckled. “She’s vegan, and just thinking about going cheese-less made me crave something loaded with it. I need to consider my options.”
I ordered my veggie delight. Mollye opted for a burger topped with melted pimento cheese.
As soon as Madge bustled away, my friend leaned across the table. “So give. What the heck happened at Hands On?”
Was Mollye trying to whisper? She managed to lower the pitch, but even dialed-down, her booming voice caused folks two tables away to jerk their heads in our direction like startled deer.
