Murder Is No Accident

by A. H. Gabhart

  “Doilies? I thought those went out with the forties.”

  “Not at all.” Betty Jean gave him a look as she got her letter off the printer. “Ladies like muffins on doilies. Makes eating them feel fancy. Not so fattening. Plus, Lana’s a writer. That’s why she plans to stock books along with serving tea.”

  “What’s she write?”

  “She’s not published yet, but she wants to write mysteries. Like Agatha Christie.”

  “Sounds like she’s aiming high.” Michael put his archaic pens back in his desk drawer. Maybe he should ask this Waverly woman if she still used ink pens to write, like Agatha Christie, but then he’d once seen a photo of Agatha Christie with a typewriter. So maybe she eschewed pens even back then.

  “What’s wrong with aiming high?”

  Betty Jean didn’t expect an answer and he didn’t give one. After working with her for almost three years, he had learned when to talk and when to listen. With Betty Jean, it was a lot of listening.

  “If you’re dreaming, you might as well dream for bestsellers.” Betty Jean scanned her letter before she went on. “She plans to invite authors in for book signings. Eventually start a book club or a theater group. Bring a little culture to Hidden Springs.”

  “That couldn’t hurt.” He doubted Lana Waverly would make it through the winter before she searched out more fertile ground for culture. The other new business had more chance. Bygone Treasures billed its merchandise antiques, but some of it looked more like junk to Michael. The owner, Vernon Trent, claimed people liked finding diamonds in the rough in a place like his.

  The man had hit up Aunt Lindy to sell some of her family heirlooms, but he was barking up the wrong tree there. She intended to pass along every bit of her Keane heritage to Michael as soon as he married and started up the next generation of Keanes.

  The thought of Aunt Lindy’s expectations brought Alex Sheridan to mind. The two of them danced back and forth but never found a song they both could agree on. She was a high-profile lawyer in Washington, DC. He was a small-time deputy sheriff in Hidden Springs. No halfway points for either of them. Lately they’d had some close encounters. But not close enough. She was back in Washington and he was still here in Hidden Springs.

  To keep from thinking about the impossible, he teased Betty Jean a little. Vernon Trent was single and not bad looking in spite of a bit too much salesman polish for Michael. Ready to smile about anything. Still, the age range worked.

  “I saw you going in Bygone Treasures yesterday. Find anything interesting?” Michael sat back in his chair and smiled at Betty Jean.

  “I was looking for a butter dish. I broke mine.” She dropped the letter on her desk, grabbed her coffee cup, and filled it at the coffeemaker behind her desk.

  Michael was surprised by the color that flashed in her cheeks before she turned away. Obviously, Vernon Trent wasn’t just any Tom, Dick, or Harry.

  “He sell you anything? Hank says Vernon Trent could sell a comb to a bald man.” Hank Leland, the editor of the local paper, had already run an article about Trent’s new business.

  “What’s Hank know?” Betty Jean’s voice was a little stiff.

  “Why do I get the feeling you don’t want to talk about Mr. Trent?”

  “I have no idea what you mean.” With her back to Michael, she stirred a packet of sweetener in her coffee and then opened another one to spill into her cup.

  “I thought you liked your coffee black. No sugar.”

  “It’s good to try something different now and again.”

  “Like shopping for a butter dish at an antique store?”

  “Right.” She turned to glare at him, her cheeks still pink. “Like doing something besides fishing all weekend.”

  “I like fishing,” Michael said.

  “And I like looking at antique dishes.”

  “And maybe the guy selling them?” Michael raised his eyebrows at Betty Jean.

  The phone rang and Betty Jean grabbed it like a lifeline. Obviously the new antique dealer in town had caught her eye. Maybe Michael should check out Vernon Trent. Make sure this guy was on the up-and-up before Betty Jean got too involved.

  “Sheriff’s office.” After she listened a moment, she spoke in a calm voice as she shot a look over at Michael.“Yes, I understand, Mrs. Gibson. Don’t worry. Michael will find her.”

  “Miss Fonda make an escape again?” Michael stood up.

  “Again.” Betty Jean put down the phone. “Poor old lady. She just wants to go home. Mrs. Gibson said she settled Miss Fonda in the sitting room in front of the television while she did some laundry. One of her other ladies promised to yell if she went for the door, but when she came back, Mrs. Stamper was asleep and Miss Fonda gone.”

  “At least it’s not raining the way it was last time she made a run for it.” Michael smoothed back his light brown hair to put on his hat.

  “Some of these days she’s going to forget the way to her house and no telling where she’ll end up. Mrs. Gibson says her memory is going downhill fast.”

  Most of the time Miss Fonda was fine at Mrs. Gibson’s, but now and again she decided to go home. So far the little woman had made the walk between the Gentle Care Home and her old house without problem. She avoided the road, so maybe her memory wasn’t all bad. She generally cut through the graveyard between Mrs. Gibson’s house and the Chandler mansion.

  Heading home put a skip in her step as though she could forget her arthritis, the same as she could forget how old she was. As yet, the dementia hadn’t stolen her long-ago memories, so she knew how to be her young self. It was the old woman she no longer knew.

  The nearest to a relative Miss Fonda had was the wife of her late husband’s brother. A widow herself, Ellen Elwood took care of Miss Fonda’s business, but she was getting older too. Ellen had a son, but Miss Fonda didn’t have much use for him. So Michael generally tracked down Miss Fonda himself.

  She never gave him any trouble as long as he let her go on to the house and try the locked door. Then when she couldn’t find a house key in her pocket, she would agree to climb in his cruiser to go back to Mrs. Gibson’s to get her key.

  Michael didn’t know what he’d do if she ever sat down in one of the chairs on the porch to wait for her parents to show up. Once in the car, things seemed to clear up a little for her, and by the time she got back to the Gentle Care Home, she remembered living there. It helped that Mrs. Gibson always had a glass of tea and something sweet ready for her. Within five or ten minutes, Miss Fonda forgot she’d even made an escape.

  But one of these days, she was going to trip on a root or a footstone in the graveyard. Or as Betty Jean said, finally forget the way and wander who knew where. Maybe into trouble.

  After Michael passed the Gentle Care Home, he turned into the cemetery. He usually spotted the old lady before he made it back to the second gate, but not this time. Miss Fonda must have been gone longer than Mrs. Gibson thought or had gone a different way. Michael turned back out on the highway.

  The Chandler house sat on a large lot beside the cemetery. Quiet neighbors, Miss Fonda said. Through the trees, Michael could see the tower room that rose above the roof of the old house and gave it a distinctive air.

  The Chandlers made a fortune in distilling before Prohibition put them out of business in the thirties. The house was built long before that. And while they lost much of their wealth during the Great Depression, they somehow held on to the house. Perhaps by finding and cashing in some of the treasure reputed to be hidden in the house by a long-ago Chandler.

  Miss Fonda laughed at the rumors. She told anyone who would listen that the Chandlers’ treasure was simply the house.

  Michael pulled up into the driveway. A car was already there. Geraldine Harper’s. That didn’t bode well. Sonny Elwood must have coerced his mother into letting Geraldine list the place for sale. If Miss Fonda found that out, she’d be devastated.

  Michael’s radio crackled as he stepped up on the wide porch. He
keyed it on.

  Betty Jean didn’t waste words. “Dispatcher called. They got what might be a crank call from Geraldine Harper’s phone. Said somebody was dead. You need to track Geraldine down and see what’s going on after you take Miss Fonda back.”

  “That won’t be hard. Geraldine Harper’s car is here at Miss Fonda’s house.”

  “What’s she doing there?”

  “What’s Geraldine do? She sells houses.”

  “Not Miss Fonda’s!” Betty Jean sounded concerned. “You can’t let her do that.”

  “Not police business,” Michael said, even though he felt the same way.

  “I guess you’re right. But a stolen cell phone is. Better check to see if Geraldine’s lost hers.”

  The front door was ajar. When he rapped on it, the door creaked open. Nobody was in sight, but a purse and briefcase were on the floor at the bottom of the winding stairway. Propped beside the purse, as though placed there with care, was a white cell phone.

  “Are you still there, Michael?” Betty Jean’s voice crackled through the radio.

  “Something’s not right here,” Michael said.

  “Not if Geraldine is selling Miss Fonda’s house. That’s not right for sure.”

  “Hold on.” Michael pushed the off button. He needed to listen.

  He called Miss Fonda’s name. No answer. Then he tried Geraldine’s name. Still nothing. He made a quick circle of the bottom floor. Everything was just as Miss Fonda must have left it the day Ellen packed her out to the Gentle Care Home. The last newspaper was still on the breakfast table. Nobody was there.

  He went back to the wide staircase. He could imagine ladies sweeping down them in their fancy dresses to make a dramatic entrance.

  “Miss Fonda, are you here?”

  This time a keening sound answered him. Surely Geraldine Harper hadn’t been so cruel as to tell Miss Fonda she was going to sell her house.

  “Geraldine?” he called.

  The keening sound got louder. Michael took the steps two at a time.

  All the way at the end of the hall, Miss Fonda was crouched beside something. Not something. Someone. The cries were coming from the old lady. The other person made no sound at all.

  Geraldine Harper lay in a tangle at the bottom of the narrow stairs leading to the third floor. One shoe was missing and her eyes stared up at nothing. Miss Fonda held Geraldine’s hand up to her cheek as she rocked back and forth and wept.

  “Miss Fonda.” Michael touched her shoulder.

  Miss Fonda finally seemed to hear him. The keening stopped as she looked up at Michael with sorrowful eyes. “It was him. She’s dead because of him.”

  3

  “Who?” Michael looked up the steep stairs. Nobody was there.

  “Bradley.” Miss Fonda’s voice quavered. “And don’t tell me I’m wrong.”

  Michael stooped down to take Geraldine’s hand away from Miss Fonda. Not long dead. While Geraldine Harper wasn’t his favorite person, it was sad seeing her broken like this.

  “Everybody said she was so lucky to marry Bradley, but now look.” She stroked Geraldine’s arm. “Oh, dear Audrey. You should have never married him. Never.”

  “Audrey?” Michael frowned, then realized Miss Fonda’s mind had wandered back to a different time. He needed to get her away from the body and her bad memories. He put his arm around her trembling shoulders. “Come on, dear.”

  “I can’t leave her.” Miss Fonda looked at him, her eyes vague.

  Michael wondered who she might think he was. He hoped not the Bradley she was blaming for this Audrey’s death.

  “We’ve got to go tell someone.” He hesitated but sometimes it was better to go along with Miss Fonda when her dementia confused her thinking. “About Audrey.”

  “If we must. We do need to find little Brad. Make sure he doesn’t see this.” Miss Fonda tried to stand up. A surprised look crossed her face. “I don’t think I can get up.”

  “Here, let me help you.” Michael lifted her up easily. Under her bulky sweater, she was a mere wisp of a woman.

  He kept his arm around her and turned her away from the body. Her breathing sounded labored as Michael helped her down the stairs, but she wasn’t crying now. At the bottom of the stairs, he dared a question. “Who’s Audrey?”

  She gave his arm a little shake. “What’s the matter with you? You know Audrey. My sister.” She said the last two words with extra emphasis. A frown deepened the wrinkles on her face.

  “Audrey, of course.” Miss Fonda obviously thought he was somebody who knew her at whatever age she had settled into. “Let’s go get a drink. You’re probably thirsty after your walk.”

  She gave him a puzzled look. “I am thirsty. But I don’t think I’ve been for a walk, have I?”

  Michael avoided answering. “Let’s get that drink. Then I have to make some calls.” He turned her away from Geraldine Harper’s purse and bulging briefcase at the bottom of the stairs and guided her toward the kitchen.

  “Telephones.” Miss Fonda gave a disgusted snort. “I suppose they’re all right in their place, but a person shouldn’t have her ear forever attached to a telephone receiver like Audrey. Dear heavens, if she’d pay half that much attention to little Brad, he wouldn’t need to be with me all the time. Not that I mind. Not one bit. I love him like he’s my own.” Another frown crossed her face. “I’m almost sure I need to tell him something, but I can’t remember what. Do you know?”

  “We’ll figure it out after you rest a minute.” Michael pulled a ladder-back chair out from the table.

  “I am tired, but I can’t imagine why. I haven’t done a thing all day.” Miss Fonda lowered herself down in the chair. She took a sip of the water Michael got for her. A smile crossed her face. “Little Brad is such a sweet child. Not at all like his father. Or Audrey either, as far as that goes. More like Father. Good-natured. And so curious about everything. That boy can ask a question a minute.” Miss Fonda laughed. “I tell him he might be president some day.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Nine.” She looked around. “I can’t imagine where he’s got to.”

  “It’s a school day, Miss Fonda.” Past school time, but that wouldn’t matter to Miss Fonda.

  “Of course.” She laughed a little. “How silly of me.”

  She seemed to have forgotten the body upstairs. That was good, but he couldn’t forget it. Another unexpected Hidden Springs death. He kept his ears open for any sound that might indicate somebody else in the house. He couldn’t put any dependence on what Miss Fonda said about another person there since she hadn’t known it was Geraldine. But Geraldine had fallen down the stairs. And somebody else knew that, besides Miss Fonda. Somebody had called 911 on Geraldine’s phone.

  He needed to make sure that person or anyone else wasn’t in the house now, but he couldn’t leave Miss Fonda alone. She might wander away. And he couldn’t leave Geraldine Harper’s body untended while he took Miss Fonda to the Gentle Care Home.

  He moved behind Miss Fonda and called the office.

  Betty Jean’s voice exploded out of the phone. “Don’t you turn me off like that before you let me know what’s happened, Michael Keane. I was ready to hit the panic button.”

  “You don’t have a panic button.” Michael pressed the phone tight against his ear and kept his voice low. Miss Fonda didn’t appear to hear him. In fact, her head drooped a little, as though she might be dozing off.

  “With all that’s happened lately, that’s changing.” Betty Jean pulled in a deep breath and blew it out in his ear. “So what’s going on?”

  “It wasn’t a crank call. She is dead.”

  “Who? Miss Fonda?”

  “No, Geraldine Harper. Looks like she fell down a flight of stairs.”

  “The Chandler mansion ghosts must have seen her realtor signs and pushed her.” Betty Jean rushed on. “That’s awful. I shouldn’t have said that. Geraldine is really dead?”

  “Broken neck, looks lik
e.”

  “So who called?”

  “I don’t know. No sign of anybody here except Miss Fonda. And Geraldine’s phone is propped beside her purse by the front door.”

  “Propped, as in somebody set it there?”

  “Right.”

  “Maybe you better look around.”

  “Good thinking.” Michael almost kept the sarcasm out of his voice. “Except I need to keep an eye on Miss Fonda.”

  “She okay?”

  “Not really.” Michael looked to be sure the old lady was asleep. “She found the body and thought Geraldine was her sister. She was distraught but looks like she’s already forgotten now.”

  “I guess that’s good. Funny how dementia works on people. Letting them remember things that happened back whenever, while they have no memory of things now. Aunt Sadie was like that before she died.”

  “So you think Miss Fonda might be remembering something that really happened?”

  “Maybe.” Betty Jean sounded thoughtful. “My mother used to talk about an accident there at that house a long time ago.”

  “We can dredge up that story later.” Michael looked out the kitchen window where a calico cat streaked across the backyard. “Better concentrate on Geraldine right now.”

  “So what do you need?” Betty Jean’s voice changed as she got down to business.

  “Justin.” That was the coroner. “Ellen to come get Miss Fonda.”

  Betty Jean interrupted him. “Ellen’s in Phoenix visiting her daughter.”

  Michael let out a sigh. “Then I guess you better call Sonny.” That wasn’t going to make Miss Fonda happy, but what else could he do? The other deputy in the office might be an option, except it was almost time for school to let out. Nothing short of a national disaster could make Lester Stucker desert his post in front of Hidden Springs Elementary at school crossing time.

  “You want me to ask him to send Felicia Peterson? She sits with Miss Fonda sometimes, and I hear she and Sonny have been keeping company.”

  “She’d be better than Sonny. Maybe.” Felicia Peterson was one of those people who never seemed to fit anywhere. Cindy hired her at the Grill but let her go when she gave up on Felicia ever getting an order right. Then Felicia worked at the drugstore until some pills went missing. They didn’t have proof she was the culprit, but once she was gone, no more pills disappeared. Felicia seemed to stumble through life without ever tripping up completely.