Murder Is No Accident

by A. H. Gabhart

  “How long ago did your mother die?”

  “You mean was murdered?” The harsh lines of anger aged the woman. As if she realized that, she smoothed her hand across her face and regained her earlier composure. “I am sorry, Michael. It is all right if I call you Michael, isn’t it? Everybody here in Hidden Springs seems to be on a first-name basis. Makes for a chummy place, don’t you think?”

  “Part of the charm of a small town, Miss Waverly.”

  “Oh please. If I call you Michael, you must call me Lana.” She laid her hand lightly on Michael’s arm. “Chummy can’t be one-sided, can it?”

  “I guess not.” Michael shifted just enough to move away from her touch. “But you didn’t answer my question about your mother.”

  “It’s been over ten years ago.” Again her gaze drifted to the cemetery. “In ways it seems much longer and in other ways, as though it happened yesterday. She was a lovely woman and Bradley Carlson killed her.”

  “Do you have any proof of that?” Michael had no reason to involve himself in something that happened in a different state. He should have tamped down his curiosity, but the question came out.

  “Some things are difficult to prove, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t happen.” She looked back at Michael. “But no, I have no proof that could be set down in front of a jury. But I have no doubt my mother is dead because of Bradley Carlson.”

  Her words echoed Miss Fonda. She’s dead because of him.

  “Is he remarried now?” Another question he had no reason to ask.

  “No. He did have another woman in his sights after Mother, but the woman broke it off. Perhaps she didn’t like the political life or who knows?” She raised her hand to stare at her red fingernails, as though looking for a chip in the polish. “It could have been the letter I felt compelled to send her advising her to be careful. Very careful.”

  “Did you know his son, Bradley Jr.?” Again, Michael tried to shift the conversation.

  “Of course. Little Brad was quite a handful when my mother married his father. Kept the household in an uproar with one crisis after another. I made a mad dash for New York the minute I was out of school. Young Brad eventually grew up and took off for California. Wanted to be in the movie business.”

  “Do you keep in touch?” When she gave him an odd look, he added, “With Bradley Jr.”

  “Why do you care?” A frown etched lines between her eyes.

  “No reason. Just curious.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat, you know.” She frowned at him, then shrugged slightly. “But I don’t mind telling you. He used to hit me up for money now and again when his father pulled back his wallet. I did send him some a few times. For my mother’s sake. I didn’t want Brad Jr. showing up on her doorstep again. But once Mother was gone, I stopped. I doubt he could track me down now.”

  “He probably wouldn’t expect to find you here in Hidden Springs. His hometown.”

  “He might think it a delightful surprise. He had good memories of Hidden Springs. Of his aunt Fonda and the house.” She turned back to the house. “It is a beautiful place, but it surely has its dark memories. And now it has more.”

  “How so?”

  She looked surprised by his question. “Geraldine Harper, of course. Such a tragic end for her.” She bent down to stroke the cat that was rubbing against her legs again. “I talked to Geraldine last week about possibly buying the house when it went on the market, and she warned me a cat was in residence. I’m not sure why she thought that necessary, but I suppose the cat has proven to be a tripping hazard. What happened today perhaps happened Friday. Do you think Geraldine was tripped up by a cat?”

  “The cat wasn’t in the house.”

  “Someone could have let her out.” She kept her eyes on the cat. “But then again, Geraldine may have simply been warning me in case I had allergies.”

  “Do you?”

  “Not to cats.” She smiled up at Michael and stroked Miss Marble head to tail one more time before she stood up. “Perhaps Geraldine did. She didn’t sound as if she cared much for cats. Or dogs either. Claimed they were nothing but a bother when she was trying to sell a house.”

  “She did enjoy her business,” Michael said.

  “Selling houses was her life, or so she told me. You can’t imagine how excited she was about Sonny Elwood contracting with her to sell this one. He’s a strange little man, isn’t he?”

  “All of us have our moments.”

  “Michael, I do think you’re jabbing me with that.” She laughed then, a practiced tinkling sound, as fake as her tears earlier.

  When he didn’t say anything, she went on. “I don’t suppose you know where a key is hidden around here? I would dearly love to take a look inside.”

  “You haven’t been inside?”

  “Why would I be acting like a peeping Thelma if I had already been inside?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “I did tell you. All the stories I’ve heard about the house since I got to Hidden Springs have piqued my interest. The lovely antique furnishings. Not to mention the treasure rumored to be hidden in the walls.”

  “You can’t believe everything you hear.”

  “True enough.” Her voice changed. “That’s the reason I need to see for myself.”

  “You’ll have to talk to Sonny Elwood about a key.”

  “Or sweet Fonda. She does like to talk about how things used to be in the house. When she was young. Too bad she has difficulty separating now from then. Mrs. Gibson was quite clear in telling me not to put too much stock in anything Fonda said.”

  “Guess that won’t matter if you’re looking for grist for your fiction mill.”

  “Come, come, Michael. You make it sound so commercial. Writing murder mysteries takes skill, the same as catching murderers. I hear you’re good at that. Catching the bad guys.”

  “Sometimes I manage to catch a trespasser.”

  “So you do.” She held out her wrists with a sly smile. “Are you going to handcuff me and take me in?”

  “I think a warning will do.” Michael kept his smile in neutral. No need giving her any encouragement. “But if you want to see the house, I’m sure Sonny would be glad to give you a tour.”

  She dropped her hands back to her side. “I’ll have to check with him.” She laughed again as she moved past Michael to the porch steps. “Come by the shop sometime and have a cuppa. On the house. And the apple walnut muffins are to die for.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “Not to worry, Deputy. A mere figure of speech.”

  He watched her pass through the cemetery gate and move out of sight among the headstones. Miss Marble, now that the woman was gone, wrapped around his legs. When he leaned over to pet the cat, she pushed her mottled black and orange head up to meet his hand. A purr rumbled through her.

  “If only you could talk, you could tell me what you saw on Friday.”

  Nothing. The cat saw nothing because there was nothing to see. He straightened up and shook his head. The lack of sleep was getting to him. He could lean against one of the porch posts and doze off in a minute. Maybe sooner. But no time for that.

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket. Almost church time. No calls. Not from Sally Jo. Not from Alex. She was probably sleeping. Or making chicken soup. What she wasn’t doing was calling him.

  He took another look around. Tried the doors to be sure they were locked. Considered peeking in the window like Lana Waverly, but the house was empty. Nothing to see but ghosts. And he didn’t believe in ghosts.

  On the way to the church, he passed Mrs. Gibson’s Gentle Care Home. Mrs. Gibson was usually good for a cup of coffee and he had just enough time before church for a quick visit to Miss Fonda. He pulled in the driveway just as Felicia Peterson was backing out of a parking spot in her old Chevy. It was doubtful she’d ever get to drive Sonny’s BMW again after her wild trip away from the Chandler house on Friday.

  Michael moved to the side to give her plent
y of room. She gave him a jerky wave and then stared straight ahead as she slowly drove past him. He checked in his rearview mirror to see if she stopped before turning out on the highway. The brake lights came on and her turn signal flashed. She appeared to be taking no chances that Michael would have reason to stop her.

  When he rang the bell, Mrs. Gibson came to the door with a dishtowel in her hand. “Sorry about the locked door, Michael, but I guess I’ll have to keep it locked all the time now. Either that or lose my license if the inspectors hear about you-know-who getting away on me.” She lowered her voice and glanced toward the women clustered around the television set in the spacious front room. Three of the four had nodded off. Miss Fonda wasn’t among them. “So many rules and regulations sent down by the government these days. Makes a body’s head swim. I’d give it up and start a cake baking business if it weren’t for the ladies. I can’t imagine what might happen to them.”

  “It’s not that much trouble to lock your doors.”

  “I suppose not.” She fanned herself with the towel. She was a generous woman in spirit and size. “Did you come by to see Miss Fonda?”

  “And to get a cup of coffee if you have any made.”

  “For you, I’d make a fresh pot. But as it turns out, I haven’t poured out the pot I fixed for Florence Stamper’s son who ate dinner with us a while ago. He’s such a nice boy.”

  Michael managed not to smile. Gary Stamper had to be in his late fifties, but Mrs. Gibson who was pushing seventy had probably known him when he was a boy. “Where is Miss Fonda? She not in the mood for television tonight?”

  “Oh no. The dear thing hasn’t been the same since Friday when, well, you know.” She glanced over at the ladies again. “Has quite taken to her bed. I’ve half a mind to call Ellen tomorrow about having the doctor take a look at her. I know Ellen’s in Arizona, but it does absolutely no good at all to talk to Sonny. That boy.” She clamped her lips together. “Never mind. I shouldn’t be talking about him. And he does send Felicia over to check on his aunt most every day. Felicia’s a bit flighty but she’s company for Fonda.”

  “I saw her leaving just now.” Michael nodded toward the parking area.

  “Right. She didn’t stay long. She said Fonda kept dozing off on her, so she thought it best to let her sleep.”

  “Was she here Friday when Miss Fonda made her escape?”

  “Well, no, dear. She’s very good with Fonda. She wouldn’t have let her get out the door. If only. Poor dear. It had to be quite a shock for her to find Geraldine like that. So like her sister.” Mrs. Gibson dabbed her forehead with the dishtowel. “I made a pot roast tonight and the kitchen is steaming. But come on and I’ll get your coffee.”

  He started to say something, but she waved away his words. “No trouble. No trouble at all.”

  He trailed her to the kitchen. “I can’t stay long, so if you could put it in a Styrofoam cup, that would be great.”

  “Sure thing.” She rummaged in the cabinet and came up with a cup. “You take it black, don’t you?”

  When she handed him the cup, he took a sip. “Just what I need. You’re a lifesaver. I might make it to church now.”

  “So nice of you to help Pastor Karen with those kids. That age can be a challenge. Except that sweet Maggie Greene. She comes by and reads to Fonda now and again. Fonda thinks she’s her daughter sometimes.”

  “Miss Fonda didn’t have a daughter.” Michael peered at Mrs. Gibson over his cup.

  “That doesn’t mean she can’t think she does now. Everything is all a jumble for her. Real and imagined mixing together.” Mrs. Gibson frowned. “It doesn’t help when that woman comes by and tries to make her remember what the poor thing can’t remember.”

  “Felicia?”

  “No, that new woman. What is her name?” Mrs. Gibson shut her eyes as though that would help her think. “Waverly. Lana Waverly. Fonda was in a state after she visited yesterday. Worse even than when Felicia brought her back Friday. I can’t imagine how awful that would be. To find somebody dead. Well, somebody you weren’t expecting to die. I have seen a few of my ladies pass over, but that’s just an easy letting go. Geraldine dying is different. She wasn’t even sixty yet.”

  “What does Lana Waverly want with Miss Fonda?”

  “She claims to be interested in the history of the Chandler place. But I can’t be letting her make my clients sick. If Fonda wants to talk, that’s one thing. But that woman was peppering her with questions. Had Fonda in a state.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. I don’t eavesdrop on my clients and their guests.” Mrs. Gibson pushed her hair back from her forehead and flapped a little air toward her face with the dishtowel.

  “Maybe you should tell her Miss Fonda isn’t up to visits right now.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that.” The woman shook her head a little. “I don’t run a prison. In spite of the locked door. My ladies like visitors. And Fonda likes talking about the past. You should hear her when that child, Maggie, comes by. You can almost see her dancing with her fellows back in the day. And climbing up to that tower room. To hear Fonda tell it, she spent half her time up there when she was Maggie’s age. It was her getaway place.”

  “What about Felicia? Does she like talking to her about the past?”

  “Felicia is more into the here and now. Hasn’t much patience for the back-when stories. Not that she’s not nice enough to Fonda. She is, but you can tell it’s a job. No more.” Mrs. Gibson sighed. “I just don’t understand this young generation. It’s like they can’t give one iota more than what they think they’re being paid to do.” A timer went off in the kitchen. “Oh dear, I need to give Etta her evening meds. You go on back and see if Fonda’s awake. Maybe it’ll cheer her up to see you.”

  Miss Fonda opened her eyes when Michael stepped up beside her bed. She looked tired. No, more than tired. She looked weary of breathing. When she lifted her hand off the covers toward Michael, he set his coffee down and took it. “Hello, Miss Fonda. I dropped by to see how you’re doing.”

  “Not good.” She gripped his hand with more strength than Michael would have thought she had. “And don’t say that they are, Gilbert. You’re always trying to make things better than they are.”

  Michael knew who Gilbert was. Miss Fonda’s long-dead husband. He mumbled some kind of answer. It seemed cruel to tell her Gilbert had been gone these many years.

  “But I know what happened and whose fault it was.” She dropped her hand back down on the covers and turned her face toward the wall. “I know. And sometimes I don’t think I can stand it.”

  Michael patted her shoulder. “There, there, Miss Fonda. It will be all right after you rest awhile.”

  “How can you say that? It will never be all right again.” She didn’t turn her head to look back at Michael. “It was his fault. All of it. His fault.” A tear made its way through her wrinkles down her cheek. “And don’t say it wasn’t, because it was. No matter how it happened.”

  “Shh.” Michael stroked her arm this time. “Maybe things will look better in the morning.”

  “Morning only brings more trouble. Nothing but trouble since she married. Nothing but trouble.” The last words were a whispered mumble as her eyes closed. But she was still breathing. She hadn’t given up on that completely quite yet.

  He picked up his coffee and made his way out. Mrs. Gibson waved at him from the television room. By the time he got to church, he was running on coffee and fumes. He searched through the kids gathered in their meeting room. Anthony was there, but no Maggie.

  For some reason, that worried Michael. Worries piled on top of worries. But right in the middle of them, poking him the hardest, was his silent phone.

  17

  “Aren’t you going to youth group tonight?” Maggie’s mother asked her when she came home from work Sunday afternoon. She sank down on the couch and kicked off her shoes. “I’m beat.”

  Maggie looked up f
rom the algebra book in her lap. Jesse was watching yet another of those dumb cartoons, but that was her fault. She wouldn’t let him go outside. Not after their father ate the fish sticks she fixed for lunch and took off. She’d wanted to ask him not to leave, but what was she going to say? That some man might be watching them because she was somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be on Friday. That some man threatened her. Threatened Jesse.

  I’ll be watching. The man’s creepy voice echoed in her head. She was almost afraid to let the dog outside and now was relieved Bertie lay at her feet.

  He’d bark if anybody strange came to the door. But what if he did bark? What if someone was outside? Watching her. She didn’t know what to do.

  “I had homework.” Maggie held up her book. Didn’t matter that she’d been staring at it an hour without figuring out the answer to the first problem. If Miss Keane had a pop quiz on Monday, she’d flunk for sure. Nothing was adding up in her brain today.

  “You had all day. You should have done it earlier.” Her mother rolled her head around to stretch out the kinks she got from wearing that Fast Serve microphone all day. “You can’t skip the church meetings if you want to go on their outings.”

  “That’s not it, Mama. I wanted to go.” She really, really did. Anthony would be there. He might have sat by her while they did their Bible study. He might have reached over and touched her hand. Little shivers tickled through her at the thought. “But I have to keep up my grades if I want to get a scholarship.” And stay out of trouble.

  “What’s wrong, Maggie?” Her mother raised her head up off the couch and fastened her eyes on Maggie. “Did something happen yesterday to upset you?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” The words almost choked her. She didn’t like fibbing to her mother, but what else could she do? Her mother might call the police. Maggie couldn’t take that chance. If she just stayed quiet, the man would leave her alone. Leave Jesse alone too.

  Jesse deserted his television show and came over to lean against his mother. He was still a baby in so many ways. The youngest could be that way. The oldest had to grow up and do what had to be done. Maggie bit the inside of her lip. Keeping her mouth shut was what had to be done, even if she did want to confess the whole mess to her mother. Or to somebody. Anybody.