Crouching in the dirt was Ellison Misry, his mousy hair slicked back and his lanky limbs hanging like branches. Then, I realized the odd reason he was crouching there: the boy was having an affectionate interlude with Marbles, lovingly stroking the cat’s head and rubbing his belly.
“Ellison,” I said with more sharpness than intended.
The teenager looked up and offered a crooked smile. “Hi Ms. Bonnet. Sorry I couldn’t come on Saturday.”
“It’s okay. Your father told me you were sick.”
“Yeah, but I’m fine now. He said you were at the house looking for me.”
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay since you didn’t show up on Saturday,” I lied.
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
“I didn’t realize you and Marbles were so close.”
“Yeah, he’s my buddy,” Ellison scratched the kitty behind the ears. “I can’t believe what happened to Mr. Fitzsimmons.” He averted his eyes to the ground in a gesture that I didn’t know whether to interpret as guilt or sadness.
“From what I hear, you weren’t very nice to Mr. Fitzsimmons,” I said accusingly as Ellison stared off into space.
“I was kinda rude sometimes. But I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said in a strangled voice as though his conscience were pressuring him.
But why did he feel guilty? Because he killed Mr. Fitzsimmons? Because he was rude to the old fellow? Or was there more at stake here? “You seem like you want to say something, Ellison.”
He stood to his full height and looked down into my eyes. I noticed for the first time that the boy had sparkling hazel eyes and slight dimples in his sunken cheeks. He looked desperate but unwilling to talk. Clearly, an internal battle was being fought. “You don’t need me here, right? As long as the cops are blocking off the garden, there’s no work for me to do, right?”
“It is a slow day. So you can go…but first, tell me what’s on your mind,” I coaxed.
Shifting his weight between each foot, he grimaced and chewed his lower lip. A tense moment passed before he grunted, “I think I know who killed Mr. Fitzsimmons.”
Chapter 10
My body froze from head to toe as I waited for Ellison to make his revelation. His face was contorted with the pain of keeping a horrible secret for too long. I wanted to lunge at the kid, shake him, and scream, ‘Just say it! Who? Who was it?’ Instead, I feigned calmness and patiently waited for Ellison to speak. I was afraid that if I asked him one more question he would shut down and change his mind.
“I can’t tell you this…” he faltered as Marbles meowed for more attention. Absently petting the cat, Ellison said, “I could be wrong.”
“And you could be right,” I said cautiously. “Ellison, if you know something, you should say it. You’ve already avoided some trouble with the law.” His eyes blazed as I spoke the words. “Yes, that’s right. I know the real reason you’ve been volunteering here. You should have told me. But I’ll let that go…if you tell me who you think killed Mr. Fitzsimmons.”
“Marjory,” Ellison blurted out as my nerve endings went numb.
“Marjory?” I gasped.
“Yeah, Mr. Fitzsimmons told me one day how she was really angry when he started volunteering here. She felt like he was on her turf.”
The boy’s explanation was incomprehensible. Why would Marjory care if Mr. Fitzsimmons volunteered here? Did they have some kind of a history together? “How did Marjory know Mr. Fitzsimmons?” I asked.
Ellison gave me a dumbfounded look. “How did she know him? She’s his ex-wife!”
“No, that’s not possible!” I was in utter disbelief. “Marjory has never been married!”
“Yes she has. She was married to Mr. Fitzsimmons for a long time and they had a daughter together,” Ellison revealed as I felt unsteady on my feet.
“I can’t believe this.” My mind raced as I realized that not only was Ellison telling the truth about the relationship but he was also probably right with regard to Marjory being the culprit. Marjory had gone out of her way to declare that she had never been married…and she also was the one who knew Mr. Fitzsimmons’ exact age. Yes, she was his ex-wife for certain! And as his ex-wife, she might have had the key to his house. It must have been her throwing things when Penny and I snooped around the property. Maybe Marjory had been searching for valuables and became frustrated with a lack of findings. Or maybe she was had just been behaving like a woman scorned and releasing years of pent-up rage in a destructive tirade. Either way, Marjory had to be the murderer!
“Come with me,” I ordered. “We need to talk to the sheriff.”
Knowing he was cornered, Ellison dutifully followed me to the crime scene where the sheriff was skimming through a file report. “Hi again, Sheriff,” Ellison said bashfully.
“Hello Ellison,” the sheriff replied, puffing out his chest.
“Ellison needs to speak with you,” I nudged the boy.
“Oh?” The sheriff looked interested.
In a cracking voice, Ellison confessed, “I know I should have told you this when you came to my house to question me, but I didn’t want to get involved in this mess. I’m already in enough trouble.” He stared down at his worn out sneakers.
“I’m listening,” the sheriff said with narrowed eyebrows.
“Marjory is Mr. Ellison’s ex-wife.”
The sheriff smirked. “Yes, I’m well aware of that, son.”
“But maybe you weren’t aware that she didn’t want him around here…” Ellison continued.
“And that she wanted the commission from the sale of a $5,000,000 property,” I added hastily. Being irritated by an ex-spouse wasn’t motive enough for murder, but greed for cash certainly was.
“I’m not sure why you two are under the impression that you’re telling me something new, but I appreciate the effort,” the sheriff patronized.
“So you think Marjory did it?” I asked incredulously.
“I can’t discuss the particulars with you, Ms. Bonnet. But what I can do is ask for a little assistance in extracting a confession.”
“Of course! What do you need me to do?” I asked eagerly.
“Well, it might be a moot point once we get the fingerprint results back from the watering can. If the murderer used his---or her---bare hands on the weapon, then there’s likely still some trace of fingerprints on the watering can,” the sheriff explained.
“Even with all the rain that day?” I questioned.
“Even with all the rain,” the sheriff said definitively. “But you can speed up the process. Here’s how.” He leaned in closer and whispered his freshly hatched plot to frame Marjory.
***
Nonchalant as could be, I sauntered into the bakery where Marjory was dusting a doughnut with powdered sugar. If she really had killed her ex-husband, which I strongly believe she had, then the woman was more frigid than a block of Alaskan ice. She went about her daily tasks without a care in the world. Over the din of the oven fan, I even thought I heard her softly whistling a tune.
“How about a doughnut break?” She asked brightly as I approached the counter.
Following the sheriff’s orders, I demanded, “How’s your daughter in Kentucky? She must be devastated that her father died.”
Marjory’s face turned whiter than all the powdered sugar in the bakery. She seemed stunned into speechlessness and paralyzed in place. Before she could formulate a bold-faced lie, I continued, “Why did you say you were single? Who are you, really? I feel like I’ve been working with a stranger all these years.” Lowering my voice to an intimate whisper, I added, “And I know you killed Patrick. I just hope your fingerprints aren’t on that watering can…”
“I used gloves!” She screeched before slapping a regretful hand over her mouth.
“Did you kill Mr. Fitzsimmons?” Janine asked in horror as she emerged from the kitchen.
“Of course not!” Marjory quickly backtracked.
“But I just heard what you said
to Betsy,” Janine insisted. “And you told me this morning that you were going to take a vacation after the Blueberry Festival! Did you mean a permanent vacation?”
“The only permanent vacation Marjory’s going to be taking is at Iowa State Prison,” the sheriff drawled as he entered the bakery with two police officers protectively flanking him.
“I didn’t confess to anything!” Marjory screamed, but it was no use. The police officers were already reading the conniving woman her rights and trapping her in a pair of silver handcuffs.
Uncomfortably, Ellison stood in the doorway as I turned and fixed a soft gaze on the boy. “You’re a hero,” I asserted as his face turned red. Maybe Ellison wasn’t a Boy Scout, but he wasn’t a murderer either. I had horribly misjudged the youngster and learned a valuable lesson about jumping to conclusions.
As sirens howled and a squad car drove Marjory away, Penny walked into the bakery with a perplexed look on her face. I filled her in on all the hideous details as her eyes widened with shock. She was just as guilty as I was at misjudging the boy.
“I feel awful,” Penny moaned. “I guess it’s not always true what they say about age and wisdom.”
“You’re very wise, Penny. Maybe you didn’t peg the murderer correctly, but yesterday you gave me some of the best advice I’ve ever received.”
“What’s that, dear?”
“You told me to be open to love.” I wrapped an arm around my lucky Penny and kissed her on the cheek. For 10 years, she had been an essential part of Green Garden Shoppe, and I was ready for another 10. And maybe a taste of love…
Epilogue
The Following Week
At the Blueberry Festival
Mother Nature couldn’t have gifted Lemondrop Hills with a more glorious day for the long awaited festival. The sun was a golden fireball in a sheer blue sky and the air was unusually warm, giving a hint of summer days to come. While I was no baker, I did make a mean fruit salad, which I had donated as my contribution to the festival. Blueberries, cherries, pears, and apples embellished the enormous glass bowl as I dished out small portions to frolicking children.
In the end, Marjory’s confession hadn’t mattered because her fingerprints had indeed been detected on the watering can. Maybe she used gloves during the actual murder, but she had touched the weapon at some point with her naked hands and that had proven to be a fatal mistake. A few days ago, Patrick and Marjory’s daughter, Melissa, had driven up from Kentucky to take care of her father’s estate. According to the sheriff, Melissa hadn’t been remotely surprised to find out that her mother was the murderer. Apparently, Marjory had been coveting her ex-husband’s wealth ever since he made the mansion sale. Police believed it was Marjory who had been in Mr. Fitzsimmons’ house, shattering glass ornaments when she was unable to guess the combination to the slain man’s safe.
Putting Marjory and her lies behind me, I focused on the wholesome fun of the Blueberry Festival. Leaving my fruit salad station, I ventured over to an artist’s booth filled with colorful collages featuring freeze dried blueberries, twigs, pressed flowers, and other elements of nature. “These are really cool,” I praised as the artist stood up and smiled modestly. “Really a clever concept!”
“Thank you,” the balding man extended his hand for a shake. “I’ve seen you before.”
“You have?” I asked in surprise.
“We live in the same apartment building. I guess you never noticed me before,” he smiled a little more shyly as his brown eyes crinkled around the edges.
“I guess not, I’m sorry,” I took a good look at the man, who appeared no more than a handful of years older than me. He wasn’t a Ken doll, but I was no Barbie either. Average looks aside, the man was a talented artist with a genuine smile. Could this be an opportunity to open myself to love? Or at least to new possibilities and life after divorce?
“Maybe we could grab a cup of coffee after the festival?” He asked hopefully.
“I’d like that.”
His smile soared with confidence. “I’m Jim, by the way.”
“Betsy. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to finally meet you,” Jim replied as I imagined all the amazing possibilities his simple words could hold.
***
Have a Blueberry Festival from the
comfort of your own kitchen!
Turn the page for some delicious berry-themed recipes perfect for spring & summer!
Americana Fruit Salad
Sliced Red Delicious apples (4 or 5)
2 cups blueberries
Sliced pears (4 or 5)
½ cup pitted Bing cherries
½ cup pitted golden Rainier cherries
Cherry Vanilla ice cream (optional)
Make the red, white, and blue colors stand out by separating the fruits well. Mix the various fruits together and present in an elegant glass bowl or individual serving dishes. Top with a scoop of Cherry Vanilla ice cream for an extra burst of sweet creaminess.
Natural Blueberry Smoothie
1 cup blueberries
2 cups chilled almond milk
2 bananas (chopped)
3 scoops vanilla ice cream
2 tsp sugar (optional, for a sweeter drink)
Place all ingredients into a blender. Process until smooth and thick. Serve in tall glasses. A healthy, drinkable breakfast!
Refreshing Summer Berry Pie
1 cup of blueberries
1 cup of blackberries
2 cups of strawberries
2 1/2 tablespoons of cornstarch
3/4 cup of sugar
2/3 cup of water
Whipping cream for garnish
2 tablespoons of butter
1 tablespoon of lemon juice
1 (9") baked pie shell
Mix 1 cup berries with cornstarch, sugar and water. Cook over medium heat, stirring gently until thickened. Remove from heat; stir in butter and lemon juice. Chill in refrigerator for 30 to 45 minutes. Fold in remaining berries and pour into baked pie shell. Refrigerate for several hours or until set. Serve with whipped cream.
Hello there!
Thank you for reading Watering Canned. I hope you had fun solving the mystery. I sure had fun writing it. Look for these titles in the near future on Amazon:
Planting Murder
Tea Bagged
Best Wishes,
Debbie Delancy
About the Author
Debbie Delancy is an old-fashioned Midwestern gal who enjoys a good clean mystery. So she decided to write a few! With dual passions of gardening and tea, Debbie enjoys life’s simple pleasures. She’s currently working on her next story, which will be available on Amazon in a jiffy!
Small Town Spooky (Cozy Mystery Anthology) Page 26
