I probably would have to talk to Althea about this, I thought as I finished writing the citation and made note of the pale green car that followed the speeding Corvette at a more reasonable pace. GREEN14. It had been parked in the screen of Benson’s oleander bush up by the corner. I’d seen a couple other vehicles painted this odd color and with the similar license plates and assumed they belonged to the same company. Going ‘green’ had become quite a gimmick with some businesses. The driver was hard to see because of the floppy hat and unnecessary over-sized sunglasses, but I had the impression of someone intent on some grim and secretive task.
I didn’t want to talk to my cousin about what had just happened since I disliked dealing with her even when she isn’t psychotic from planning a wedding, but I could not stand by and let her marry someone who was violent—and probably untruthful since I had heard no mention of a previous wife, and in a small town, you find out these things unless someone goes to a lot of trouble to hide their past.
However, I would talk to Gordon first. The lardhead had a right to explain himself before I ratted him out. And quite honestly, though Althea was being a pain now, I really hated to think what she would be like if anything derailed this wedding. I cravenly decided that I would let sleeping dogs lie for as long as possible.
The town was filling up with visitors. In an effort to maintain goodwill I was carrying out unofficial policy and only ticketing the most egregious offenders. Like the Toyota espousing every popular cause for the last decade parked in the red zone right outside the police station. I just hoped it wasn’t one of the Chief’s relatives. They tended to drive crappy cars and float the parking restrictions.
We don’t usually keep our cell phones on while working since we have a radio that can contact the station and personal calls are discouraged on the job. But since the turkeys had gotten loose, Jeffrey and I started carrying our cells with us so we could talk directly without involving dispatch (we were tired of being the butt of jokes by our fellow officers). My family knows better than to call me on duty unless there is a true emergency, so I was very surprised and alarmed to hear my mom’s voice on the line.
“Chloe! You have to get to the hospital right now.” My heart stuttered and then stopped.
“Is it Dad?” My father’s new career involved sharpening a lot of industrial-sized blades and he sometimes got hurt.
“No—it’s Althea. I’m driving Dorothy to the hospital now.”
“What happened? Car accident?” I wasn’t a big fan of my cousin, but I truly didn’t wish any harm on her.
“No. Someone smeared oil or something all over the stairs at work and she fell down them. She’s hurt her ankle. She is very worried that she’ll have to get married on crutches.”
I exhaled. If Althea was well enough to be thinking about her wedding then she was well enough for me not to worry about. Still, if someone had deliberately done something to the stairs at the dental office where she worked, it needed looking into. And cleaning up. If I called it in, guess who would get assigned the job anyway. And then there would be paperwork. Sometimes discretion is the better part of valor.
“Mom, I can’t go to the hospital right now, but I am going to swing by Doc Marley’s.” It was off my route, but not by much.
“But no one’s there. The doctor has gone back to Boston to see his daughter for the holiday. The office is closed.”
That was good news. I didn’t have to worry about a patient taking a header down the steep stairs at the front of the building. Like many downtown businesses, Doc Marley’s office was in an old Victorian—which was authentically picturesque but also equipped with authentically steep stone steps and sharp iron railings that could impale anyone unlucky enough to fall to the side of the walkway.
“I need to make sure that it is cleaned up right away. We don’t want anyone else stopping by the office and falling,” I pointed out.
“You’re right.” Mom was grudging, but she agreed.
“Call me once the doctor is through with Althea and let me know how she is.”
“But Althea will want—“
“Althea will want me to figure out who did this to her. This is a nasty prank that could have been a lot more serious.”
Mom couldn’t argue this point. My mother tends to look for the good in everyone, but even she had to admit that Althea was more into vengeance than forgiveness.
“Chloe, while I have you here…”
“Yes?” I knew though before she spoke what was on her mind. Mom had lost something.
“I can’t find my hand trowel—the pretty one with the red handle.”
Aunt Dot had been planting bulbs right before Halloween and she always borrowed Mom’s tools since they were newer. She tended to treat Mom’s gardening tools like rarely used serving pieces and was absent-minded enough to store them with the good silverware.
“Try the china hutch,” I said. “You know Aunt Dot.”
“Oh. Right. I’ll look there. Thank you.”
“Call as soon as you have news. Bye, Mom. Love you,” I added and then disconnected.
I hadn’t noticed any oil on the redhead’s perfectly manicured hands as she jabbed her fingers at me, but a bitter ex-wife was just the sort of suspect that sprang to mind in a case like that. The burning bush and I might be talking sooner than I had planned, though I wasn’t looking forward to it.
It didn’t take me long to reach Doc Marley’s and to see that Althea was correct about there being stuff smeared on the cement stairs. And probably also all over her clothes too. I recognized the substance as WD-40. It’s a great substance, but not underfoot.
I did my best to find some clues, but there was nothing obvious—no discarded can that might have fingerprints on it, no footprints in the dead flowerbed beside the steps. Blue sniffed around, too, but had no more luck than I did. I had a rag in the cart, so I used it to wipe up the worst of the mess and then placed a call to my father. I explained what had happened and asked if he could come over and finish cleaning up when he was done at the flea market. Dad sharpened scissors and knives on Saturdays at the flea market held in the old stables at the fair grounds once the rains begin. He was bound to have some solvent or cleaner with him.
Dad agreed and then asked if there was anything he should bring for Thanksgiving dinner. His words made my nerves trill pleasantly like they do before you get on a roller-coaster. Thanksgiving was less than a week away now and I needed to go grocery shopping and clean house so everything would be nice for Alex.
“Maybe some wine,” I suggested. Dad does a mean barbecue but the rest of his cuisine was as limited and unimaginative as mine. I like baking, the way Dad likes barbecue. But that was all we liked. Neither of us had ever advanced beyond the basics of food preparation since it didn’t interest us.
Deciding to bend a few more rules, I stopped by the hospital and found Gordon in the lobby asking directions to the waiting room. Mom had obviously called him too and he looked frantic. He shouldn’t be there on his shift, but then neither should I. It made for assured mutual silence. And I thought it touching that he cared enough to come.
“Gordon, we need to talk before you see Althea.”
I could see that he was tempted to say something snide, but my being related to his fiancée gave him pause. The old Gordon would have let fly. Now he actually stopped to consider his reply.
“It’s about Althea’s accident,” I added.
He nodded once and allowed me to lead him over to some of those nasty plastic chairs that they have only in hospitals.
I related my run in with the redhead and then asked him point blank if he knew her and if it was true that she was his ex-wife. I didn’t mention my thoughts about who might have spread WD-40 on the stairs. Gordon wasn’t entirely stupid and he would probably think of this once he heard the details of Althea’s fall.
“Yes. It’s true.” He sounded morose. “Oh God. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“You were actually
married to that woman?” I asked, still kind of shocked at the idea and showing it. Usually I know things, but this one was a bolt out of the blue. A part of me had expected him to deny it, to tell me that the redhead was a loony who had been stalking him.
“Yeah—for about six weeks. Silly and I got married in high school. It took us longer to get a divorce than the whole time we were dating and married.”
“Silly?”
“Short for Sylvia.” He added: “Silly by name and silly by nature.” I didn’t think this quip was original to Gordon and it didn’t fit the woman I had met. Maybe she had changed from when Gordon knew her. “I haven’t seen her in years.”
“Well, she wanted me to warn Althea away from you.”
Gordon blinked a few times, processing this information with typical lardhead slowness. When he spoke, he sounded baffled and a bit angry. “Really? Why?”
“Dale,” I said, using his first name. “Was there any domestic abuse in your marriage?”
“What?” He looked blank.
“Did you hit your ex-wife?” I asked bluntly.
“No!” Lardhead actually looked revolted. “Of course not! Did she say that? It isn’t true! I only threw out her Avon collectibles when she broke my fishing rods!”
“Okay,” I said mildly. I hadn’t really thought that there was much chance of there being abuse. Gordon is sneaky, not violent. And I was planning on running a check on him anyway. At work and also at home. Alex, who would be there Tuesday, was a cyber crimes investigator. If Gordon had anything fishy in his past, Alex would find it. “Then I’ll let you go up to Althea. She’ll be on the second floor, past the pediatrician’s waiting room.”
“You’re not coming?” He was relieved.
“No. I’ve got to get back to work.” Gordon’s brow beetled as he belatedly considered his own truancy. I said, “If anyone notices just tell them you took an early lunch when you heard your fiancée was hurt. The Chief will understand—someone is manning the desk, right?”
“Yeah. Mrs. Wicks is there.”
That wasn’t so great. Petunia Wicks was a sweet woman but she had never really gotten the hang of our phone system. I crossed my fingers that we had no emergencies that afternoon. We could have riots and looting inside the station before Mrs. Wicks managed to successfully answer a call.
“Well, don’t be long anyway. And don’t worry—Aunt Dorothy and Mom are with Althea. She’ll be fine.”
“Maybe I should call my mother,” he said tentatively.
“Why don’t you wait until you have definite news?” And until I was long gone. “You know Althea wouldn’t want a big fuss made.”
That was a total lie. Althea would want a giant fuss made over her. But not by Gordon’s mother who was likely to arrive with her gold roses and unwanted wedding plans.
“That’s a good idea. Althea wouldn’t want to scare Mom. She’s very sensitive,” he said, relieved to have an excuse to put off the phone call. Poor Gordon. Neither Althea nor his mom were as delicate as he believed.
I patted him on the arm, feeling empathy for his approaching disillusionment.
“Don’t worry. Althea was able to phone for help. She didn’t hit her head, so there is no need to worry about anything except her ankle.” And Althea’s brain damage had been with her since birth. True, she would be cranky until completely healed, but it was best that Gordon know how peevish she could be before the knot was tied. As Gordon already knew, there isn’t an easy out for buyer’s remorse when you’re married. “But you need to warn Althea that your ex is in town. Maybe not this minute since the moms are there and you may want to be private when you tell her, but soon. You don’t want her getting blind-sided with this news and you know how some people gossip.”
People like the lardhead actually and there were a whole lot of people who would be happy to pay him back. I left Gordon gulping like a stranded fish and hurried out of the gloomy hospital and back to my cart where Blue was waiting.
Chapter 3
I have one of my grandmother’s special tablecloths. Mom has always been afraid to use it. For her, tablecloths should either be white damask or else vinyl with childish figures you take on picnics. This cloth is linen, hand printed, made in Brazil. The colors are a rich wine and eggplant—or aubergine, to those who mistakenly think the textile was made in France. It has gold medallions and assorted gourds around the border and again in the center of the cloth. It is rather like the tablecloths I’ve seen downtown at the kitchen shop that are from Provence. Except the colors are more intense.
I am not a shopper, but a year ago I had stopped by an estate sale and fallen in love with a set of dishes. I had been hiding them since that impulsive purchase. They were fire engine red and square. Mom would hate them, but I was going to use them for Thanksgiving along with Grandma’s tablecloth since for once I was having enough guests to justify putting a leaf in the table and that would lift the cloth off of the floor where it would puddle in a convenient cat size bed if the table was not extended. I had also seen a wonderful arrangement made out of fall leaves and pepper berries instead of flowers in a magazine. The fall leaves were getting scarce thanks to a series of storms, but I still had some creeper on my fence and there were sprigs of fallen pepper berries everywhere. Mrs. Everett had some neat twisted twigs in her yard—Harry Lauder’s Walking Stick, she called it. I was sure she would let me have some.
Of course, I would have to polish the silver. Mom had given me all of Grandma’s sterling because it tarnishes instantly and she hates polishing it. So do I, which was why it sat in the back of the linen closet, looking gloomy most of the time. But not this year—I was going all out. Nothing but the best for Alex. Silver polish went on my list of things to purchase.
Dazed at my unaccustomed fit of domestic planning, I decided to retire to bed and meditate on possible pies to bake. The Food Network had shown me several exotic ones. Would my guests actually eat grape or pecan-pear pie?
I was lying under my blankets, surrounded by warm furry bodies and enjoying the soft patter of the rain at the window when the peace was disturbed by a loud crack. I looked at the clock on the nightstand. 11:13. More ‘backfires’ and close by.
Blue whined and I frowned. Had another turkey just gone to the great prairie in the sky? If so, he was traveling alone and unavenged. It was cold and wet out there and I wasn’t going outside again just to give a neighbor another lecture about discharging firearms within the town limits.
I turned off the light.
* * *
The call came at six the next morning. Calls before dawn are never good news and dread had me fully awake when I picked up the phone. Awake but not polite. I’ve never had the knack of waking up cheerful.
“What?” I slurred.
“Boston?” It was the Chief. Since he is about the only person who calls me before dawn, he is used to my bad phone manners. “Get down to Courthouse Park. There’s been another murder.”
Another murder. We hadn’t had a homicide in a decade and now our little town had had two in less than a month.
“On my way.” And I was. The call was as effective as a slap in the face and I was filled with foreboding. I had a very bad feeling I knew who the corpse would be.
Coffey Road is a melancholy street even in daylight. The old trees have passed from pleasantly sheltering and moved to forbidding. The sunlight didn’t dapple here even on the brightest summer day, and even in winter with the limbs bare, it remained a dark corridor for the north wind to travel, though even its voice was muffled by the ancient arbors and tall, dull-colored houses that seemed aloof from the human activity below. People didn’t so much live in these houses as they were swallowed by them. And, I couldn’t quite forget the ghost my Cousin Todd insisted haunted one of the houses there. This was the same Todd who terrified me with tales of alligators under the bed and also with stories about a monster that crept through the stacks at the library and ate children who wandered too far from the librarian’s de
sk. I hated Cousin Todd. I hated traveling that street too in the heartless hour before sunrise.
Or maybe I just didn’t like parking near the cemetery and the old Burns’ mansion when it was dark since I had met a real monster there. But they were both near Courthouse Park where the pageant organizers had planned their Thanksgiving spectacle and where someone had gotten themselves murdered, so I forced myself to act bravely and like I didn’t feel the physical and spiritual cold all around me. Blue’s presence helped.
I could see by the klieg lights that had been set up that the victim was a red haired female. It spilled around her making it seem her head had exploded. I only knew one person with hair that unnatural color, Dale Gordon’s ex-wife. My heart sank though I had been expecting to see her.
Poor, silly woman, I thought when I reached her. She’s had her heart broken again. This time with a bullet.
“Thoughts, Boston,” the Chief asked softly. I was not allowed to get too close while Bryce processed the crime scenes since I am not an official detective. But the Chief had become a convert last Halloween and was now a true believer in my strange abilities and wanted me to have a first look. The Chief wasn’t the only curious one though, and a couple other officers, Eddie Rounds and Keith Regan, had sidled closer to hear what I might say. They saw me as a freak, but a useful one to be temporarily tolerated.
“Small caliber bullet—maybe a twenty-two,” I said. “She was shot in the chest at close range, but not much bleeding, so death was instantaneous. Her fingernails are intact, so she didn’t have a chance to fight her attacker and maybe mark him. Or her,” I added conscientiously. “Have you told Dale yet?”
“Dale Gordon? No, why would I?” That was a fair question. Gordon was a lousy policeman and the Chief used him only as a last resort.
“Because this is his ex-wife. Her name is Sylvia. She went by Silly.”
The Chief’s jaw hung down. This time I had really impressed him. I decided not to explain my insight at that moment, though I would probably have to tell him about Althea and the vicious prank with the WD-40 because I had a strong hunch they were connected. But I saw no need to mention this in front of Eddie Rounds who is a friend of Dale Gordon’s and a terrible gossip. I reported the messy stuff only to the Chief and my incidental findings were kept off the record.
Death in a Turkey Town: A Chloe Boston Mystery Page 2
