by Avery Aames
Deflated, I hugged the letters to my chest. What was I missing?
When I had found Noelle, she was lying on her side beyond the secretary desk, her arms and legs at an angle. I recalled the first thing I had detected when entering—the smell of something metallic and marshy. Noelle’s boots had been muddy. She had gone hiking. She had taken a flashlight with her. Where had it disappeared to? I swiveled and stared at the door leading to the backyard. What if Lois was wrong? What if the killer didn’t wait in a car near my house? What if the killer arrived on foot? He might have taken the flashlight when he fled.
With renewed energy, I galloped to the kitchen, flipped on the exterior lights to illuminate the backyard, fetched the flashlight I kept in the drawer by the telephone, and dashed into the night. Arcing the flashlight’s beam across the grass, I searched for signs of the killer’s footprints. Not only had the police, my nieces, and Meredith trampled the area, but the weather hadn’t cooperated, either. The grass was soaked. I flared the flashlight’s beam at the pine needle mulch beneath a group of rose bushes, hoping to find footprints leading away from the garage, but I saw none. I swept the beam along the evergreen hedge and paused. A piece of what appeared to be material was flapping in the breeze. Was it a telltale shred of the killer’s clothing? A swatch of Harold’s tweed jacket or Ashley’s natty plaid blazer? The hedges were so thick that someone trying to slip through would have gotten snagged.
I drew near, but all I spied was a piece of newspaper caught on the thorny leaves. In a huff, I wadded the paper into a miniscule ball and marched back to the house—none the wiser.
• • •
When I arrived at the theater, I noticed actors standing outside in pairs; they were preparing to audition for the winter play. Using the front window of the theater like a mirror, one male actor swiveled his female partner to face the window. He held her firmly by the shoulders as he ordered her to look at his face and then her own. He was a bum, he told her. So was she.
Spying me, the actress broke apart from her audition buddy and giggled self-consciously.
“Don’t stop on account of me,” I said. “Sounds good. But why are you rehearsing outside?”
“There are so many others in the foyer, and it’s almost dinner break for the kids,” the actress said.
“Do you know about the rehearsal room at the rear of the theater?”
“Yeah, but it’s under renovation.”
My grandmother never failed to impress me with her ability to conjure up new funds for the Providence Playhouse.
“Well, continuez as my grandmother would say, and break a leg.” I waved good-bye and moved into the foyer. To my surprise I found Amy chasing Clair with a fake roasted turkey leg.
“Run, scaredy cat.” Amy cackled with glee.
Clair, laughing as hard as her sister, dropped to all fours and scrambled beneath the buffet table.
I nabbed Amy by the back of her sweater. She swung around, ready to wallop her attacker with the turkey leg, until she realized who it was. “Oops, sorry.” She threw her arms around me. The turkey leg swatted my backside. “Clair,” she yelled. “Aunt Charlotte’s here.”
Clair crawled from her hiding space and joined the group hug. “You made it.”
I broke free and pointed at the roasted turkey leg. “Where did you get that monstrosity?”
“Mom’s friend Ashley found it at a gag store in Cleveland.” Amy waggled it. “He says pranks make life fun.”
“Does he?”
“He’s funny,” Clair said.
“Funny, ha-ha?” I asked.
“Funny, different. He’s sort of stuck-up. I don’t think he likes us much, and he’s always checking his telephone.”
“It’s like he’s addicted to it.” Amy mimed stabbing her finger on a cell phone keypad.
Hmm. It sounded like the girls were seeing more of Ashley Yeats than I had assumed. Was Sylvie aware they weren’t fond of him?
A whistle blared. Like well-trained soldiers, the twins abandoned me and sped into the theater through the double doors.
“Put the turkey leg on the prop table,” I called.
Delilah, who arrived to set napkins and plates on the buffet table, handed me a bundle of each. “Help me?”
“Sure.”
The meal was potluck, with delicious items provided by the children’s parents—platters filled with finger sandwiches, cold cuts, salads, and vegetables. In addition, there were juice boxes, bottled water, and cupcakes decorated with teensy plastic turkeys.
Delilah said, “By the way, the turkey pizzas you made yesterday were a huge hit. I had a slice. What was the cheese you used?”
“Salted Lioni Mozzarella.”
She rolled her eyes. “Très exotic.”
“I added lots of spices.”
“Will you share the recipe? Those ingredients would make a fantastic grilled cheese.”
“You bet.”
She aligned the serving spoons. “Have you heard from Jordan lately?”
“He sent me flowers.”
“Lucky you.”
“And we talked last night.”
“Any chance of seeing him?”
“He said we would meet soon, but you know . . .” My emotions caught in my throat. “Gosh, I miss him.”
She petted my arm in understanding. “Men have no sense of timetables. You never know how soon soon might be.” She grinned like the Cheshire Cat, but the smile quickly waffled and faded.
“Enough about me,” I said. “How is the play turning out?”
“Excellently.” Delilah drew me to the double doors and pointed. “Your grandmother is so playful with the kids, I barely have to do a thing. Most of them have their lines down. Our preteen duck is getting pretty good in the flying contraption, although he looks like his eyes might pop right out of his head with fear whenever we hook him into it.”
I chuckled.
Grandmère sounded the whistle a second time, and the gaggle of children circled around her. Gripping her skirt in folds so that the children could see her ankles, she said, “Follow me. And a one, two, three.” She marched in place. “Skip hop, skip hop. Do you understand?”
“Oui,” the children shouted in unison.
“All right then, repeat the words with me.”
Turkey trot music started to play through the speaker system. Children shouted, “And a one, two, three. Skip hop, skip hop.”
“De nouveau,” Grandmère said. “Again.” They obeyed. “Now, follow me in a line.” She clapped a rhythm and the line snaked downstage and then upstage, with a one, two, three, skip hop, skip hop. “Exactement. Très bien.”
I elbowed Delilah. “Who had a clue that the Indians and Pilgrims knew the turkey trot?”
She chuckled.
Suddenly the lights went out onstage. The children screamed.
“Lights,” Grandmère yelled.
But no lights switched on. Where had the stage crew gone?
“Bernadette Bessette,” a woman cried via a microphone. The speaker system popped. “You . . . You . . .” A toothpick-thin figure emerged from the wings. In the dim light provided by the twinkling lights surrounding the Mayflower and Plymouth Rock backdrop, I made out Prudence Hart in a knit dress, bolero cape, and high heels. She was holding the microphone so close to her mouth I thought she might consume it. “My Realtor said you are spreading lies about me.”
I groaned. Prudence needed a good dose of therapy and perhaps some anti-paranoia drugs. First, she suspected Sylvie was set on destroying her, and now, my grandmother?
“I want it to stop, Bernadette. Do you hear me?”
“Loud and not so clear.” Grandmère clapped her hands. “Children, calmly leave the stage and make your way to the foyer. Dinner.”
“Delilah, follow me,” I yelled. We jogged down the aisle. Over my shoulder, I said, “Prudence must have thrown the main light switch. Can you turn it back on? I’ll corral the kids.”
“I’m on it.” De
lilah charged past the children and up the stairs, then disappeared stage left.
“C’mon, kids,” I said, directing the children like a crossing guard. “This way. Go to the foyer.” They complied, but halfway up the aisle, they stopped in a cluster and pivoted to watch the drama unfold.
Prudence skulked toward my grandmother. “How dare you call me a land hog at last night’s city council meeting, Bernadette.”
A land hog? I couldn’t possibly believe those were the words my grandmother used.
“Let us take this discussion to the theater office, Prudence,” Grandmère said.
“No, I want to settle this now,” she sputtered, which made her sound, with the help of the microphone, like a choking car. “First, I am not a land hog.”
The lights on the stage flew on.
“Second, I have every right to purchase businesses in town.”
“And drive them into the ground with your lack of know-how?” Grandmère said. “Not on my watch.”
“I’ll have you know I’m an excellent businesswoman. La Chic Boutique is thriving.”
“It suffers, and you know it. You’ve driven off your best sales associates.”
I cringed. Why was Grandmère inciting Prudence?
“Sylvie is wooing your clients away from you,” Grandmère continued.
Prudence growled in frustration. “My Realtor told me that Councilwoman Bell”—the Cheese Shop customer who resembled her name—“is prying into my finances. Did you put her up to it?”
“I did no such thing.”
“She is asking about my family. My brothers. My business practices.”
“The town council has the right to investigate all hostile takeover activity.”
“Hostile? I’ll show you hostile.”
Prudence sprinted off the stage, and I breathed easier thinking she was leaving the theater to regroup. Perhaps hire an attorney. Was I ever wrong. She returned, having fetched a prop from the prop table—Amy’s fake turkey leg. Brandishing the prop like a medieval mace, she ran at my grandmother. The turkey leg made a goofy thwapping sound. The children mimicked it. Talk about theater of the absurd. Had Prudence lost complete hold of her senses?
Grandmère raised her arms to seize the rubber turkey leg. Her hands missed and caught the ties of Prudence’s cape, unleashing it. The jacket flew backward like an out-of-control umbrella in a windstorm. Grandmère reached again for the turkey leg. She snared Prudence’s pearl necklace. The strand snapped and beads scattered. A split second later, Prudence stepped on a bead. She lurched. Backpedaling while trying to keep her balance, she reeled toward the wings. In a last-ditch effort to save herself, she grabbed hold of a theater cord.
The effort triggered a sandbag overhead. The bag careened to the floor with a thud, and the cord, which happened to belong to the Peter Pan rigging, hoisted Prudence into the air. Whoosh. Prudence soared across the stage, kicking her bony legs and squealing with fear. Air caught her skirt; it billowed open. The children burst into laughter.
Grandmère yelled, “Hush,” but the children couldn’t help themselves. “Chérie.” Grandmère beckoned me to help her rescue Prudence.
I have to admit that I hesitated for a brief moment. Watching Prudence literally get her comeuppance was deliciously fun.
CHAPTER
18
“Chérie,” Grandmère commanded.
I saluted and dashed past the children. We caught hold of Prudence’s ankles and pulled her back to earth.
Red-faced with embarrassment and angrier than I had ever seen her, Prudence stamped out of the theater yelling over her shoulder, “You’ll get the lowdown on my finances, Bernadette, when hell freezes over.”
Grandmère said, “Charlotte, let us keep quiet about all of this. There is no need to spread gossip about Prudence. She is obviously distraught.”
“What about the children? They’ll tell their folks.”
“I will tend to them. Fetch Delilah and reset the rigging. Merci.”
While Delilah and I recoiled the rope and anchored it with the sandbag, something triggered in my mind.
Delilah gave me a sideways glance. “What’s with the serious face? You look like you’re trying to solve a crossword puzzle without writing down a letter.”
“Prudence’s words as she hurried away made me think about something Shelton Nelson said when he and Liberty were talking with Matthew the other day. Liberty thought hell’s key sounded religious. Shelton said that maybe Noelle’s last breath was about needing some spiritual key to avoid going to hell. Noelle was raised in a Catholic orphanage.”
“But why would she need a spiritual key? She seemed so nice. I sure hope I don’t need one. I’ve certainly racked up my share of sins.”
I told her about Noelle’s parents being grifters.
“Aha. Do you think Noelle felt remorseful about being involved in her parents’ scams?”
“Possibly. But I can’t imagine why, after all these years, she would think that she needed to atone for what they made her do as a child, unless she was running a scam now.” I mentioned the journal pages that were missing and Lois’s account of Noelle hiding her camera’s memory card.
Delilah said, “Do you think Noelle felt guilty about what she photographed?”
“Guilty enough to worry as she lay dying that she would go to hell? That seems unlikely.” I felt like I was trying to make a complicated recipe and skipping a vital step.
“Find the missing pages and memory card, and I guarantee you’ll find the killer.” Delilah drew the rope around the sandbag into a knot. “Voilà. Problem solved.”
But the problem wasn’t solved. Not by a long shot.
• • •
As I drove home, taking a circuitous route so I could drink in the glow of the decorative window displays, the sparkling array of parade decorations, and the twinkling lights that had recently been added to the clock tower in the Village Green, I tried to create a list of motives for murder that made sense.
One: Liberty Nelson, despite her devout transformation, wanted Noelle out of the picture to clear a path to her father’s love.
Two: Harold Warfield killed Noelle to keep an affair a secret or to protect his position at the winery.
Three: Boyd Hellman murdered her because she rejected him.
Four: Ashley Yeats—
I paused. He was a wild card, but he had a secret. What was it? I was determined to find out.
Five: Shelton Nelson—
I halted again. Other than Noelle discovering a possible financial shortfall that might predict SNW’s future, I couldn’t figure out a motive for Shelton. He seemed thrilled to have brought Noelle into the fold.
When I arrived home, the telephone was ringing. I snatched up the receiver.
Delilah said, “It took you long enough to get there. Where have you been?”
“Wandering the town. Were we having a race?” During high school, we often challenged each other. The first to class treated the other to a soda at the diner. The first to the parking lot after the last bell rang bought burgers.
“No, we weren’t racing,” she said.
“Then what? Oh no, don’t tell me. Our quick fix on the theater’s rigging didn’t work. You need me to return.”
“Nope. The rigging works. The duck will fly again. This call is all about me. I need a night on the town.”
I glanced at my watch. Nearly nine. I loved my friend and I felt her pain about ending her relationship, but I was too tired to go to the pub. “I can’t. I have a full day planned tomorrow at the shop. Vendors are coming in the morning, and in the afternoon I intend to catch up on back orders, not to mention I’ve got to tackle all the marketing stuff that has to get done online, which will take a long time. I am no Internet guru.”
“C’mon. Just stop in next door at Lavender and Lace for a quick cup of tea. I’m already here. See me?”
I walked outside and around the side of the wraparound porch.
Delilah, w
ith her cell phone pressed to her ear, waved to me from the B&B. “I’m wound up after the Prudence incident. Pretty please with a cherry on top? You can bring Rags.”
I chuckled. “Okay.” I hung up and rounded up my sweet pet.
As I headed toward Lavender and Lace, I spied a figure in a cloak racing along the gravel driveway. The figure disappeared behind the house. Was it the same woman I had seen the other day? A frisson of alarm coiled up my spine. Rags worked his head into my chest as if he sensed something was wrong, too. Who was she? Why was Lois hiding her? Did she have something to do with Noelle? The timing of the woman’s arrival in town was too coincidental.
I jogged up the stairs and spotted Lois standing at the far end of the heated porch, chatting with a pair of guests at the inn. Agatha galloped circles around Lois’s ankles.
Before I could draw near to say hello, Delilah flew through the screen door and whispered, “Psst.” She hooked a finger to follow her inside. Something was up.
I edged past the screen door into the warmth of the inn’s foyer and said, “Did you see that woman?”
“Shh.”
“Did you see her, the one in the cloak?”
“Shh.”
“What’s with the hush-hush act? Who is she?”
“Who?”
“The woman in the cloak.”
“What are you talking about?”
I told her my concern.
“I’ll bet it’s Lois’s sister,” Delilah said. “She left town under a cloud of suspicion. If I were her, I’d like to keep on the down-low, too.” She clutched my elbow and dragged me toward the kitchen. “Let’s go.”
“Why are you acting so weirdly?”
“Me?”
“And why are we whispering?” Had the incident at the theater made Delilah loopy?
She didn’t answer.
“Where are we going?” I demanded.
“I set up tea in the back. We have to talk. Well, you need to talk,” she said, emphasizing the word you.
Something in my gut twisted. Did she think I was withholding information from her? Had Urso put her up to this charade? Was he sitting in the inn’s kitchen ready to grill me? Would he cuff me in order to make me blab?
