Murder Is No Accident

by A. H. Gabhart

  “Some kind of nightmare anyway. Who’s been telling you all this?” He handed his money to Cindy, who punched the buttons on the ancient register.

  “You know a good newspaperman never reveals his sources.”

  Cindy spoke up as she gave Michael his change. “If he won’t tell you, I will. It’s that Lana Waverly. That’s all she wants to talk about. The Chandler house and what happened there.”

  “She’s just looking for a background for the mysteries she wants to write.” Hank handed her his ticket and money.

  “Hmph. She’s making trouble, if you ask me. Her and her tea and muffins. Thinks she can waltz in here and make over Main Street.” Cindy slapped Hank’s change down on the counter. “Well, I’ll tell you what. Some of us think Main Street is fine the way it is. And pie and coffee beats a dry old muffin and a snooty cup of flavored tea any day of the week. Don’t have to hold your pinkie right or anything.” Cindy held up her hand with her pinkie crooked.

  “Whoa, Cindy.” Hank gingerly picked up his change and backed away from the counter. “You know I’m in the pie corner.”

  Michael laughed. “Come on, you two. There’s room on Main Street for tea and coffee.”

  Cindy turned her glare on Michael. “And murder mysteries too, I guess.”

  “As long as they’re just stories. We’ve had more than our share of the real-life kind lately. Don’t need any more. Ever.” Michael put his wallet in his pocket and checked his phone again. Still no calls. He barely resisted the impulse to punch a few buttons to see if the thing was working.

  “You can say that again,” Hank said. “Even if those headlines were selling papers. But a mystery writer is a different thing. Lana gets a book published with a Hidden Springs setting, that would make a great headline, don’t you think?”

  “Each to their own, I suppose.” Cindy shoved her red hair back from her face. “But I can’t see why anybody would want to make up stories about people getting killed. Plenty of better things to write about in Hidden Springs. Plenty of them.”

  Cindy grabbed her towel and went back to clean off their table. Hank watched her. “You think she’s still sore over me not making headline news of her nephew winning that ribbon for showing his Holstein at the fair?”

  “You missed your chance for big slices of pie with that one. You always said cow pictures sold papers.”

  “Yeah. That and murder.”

  “I’ll take the cow pictures.” Michael kept the smile on his face, but something still bothered him about Geraldine. He was getting paranoid about everything. Geraldine’s fall. Maggie or maybe Lana sneaking into the Chandler house. Vernon Trent’s interest in Betty Jean. Alex’s silence. Could be she was simply tired, like she said. He’d come back and get a few plates of Cindy’s finest this afternoon and take them to Reece’s.

  First he had to head to the office and hear what Betty Jean had to say about her weekend. Hank took off toward the post office and Michael headed to the courthouse. Bygone Treasures still had the closed sign turned out on the door.

  19

  “Michael.” Lana Waverly stepped out her shop door in front of Michael.

  Michael held in a sigh. He wasn’t in the mood for another round of her flirting. Even so, he couldn’t ignore her. “Good morning, Miss Waverly.”

  “Come, come, Michael. We got past all that formality yesterday. Why don’t you come in and sample my Irish breakfast tea?” She held her hand out toward her door that sported a new sign. Steam rising from a cup formed a y in Waverly Tea Room. The same design was appliquéd in blue on Lana’s crisply starched apron. “On the house.”

  “Thanks, but I better get to the office before Betty Jean sends Lester after me.”

  Lana laughed. “Lester is a gem. He will find his way into my books for sure. A bit of small-town color.”

  Maybe that was what bothered Michael. The feeling that they were all just small-town color to her. “That might make him happy.”

  “You sound a bit dubious.” Her smile lingered. “Don’t worry. If I put you in my story, you’ll be one of the good guys.”

  “That’s reassuring. When are we going to see this book?”

  “Not for a while. I’m still working on the storyline and the killer’s motive. Motive is very important, but I’m sure you know that from investigating real-life crimes. And accidents.” Her eyes sharpened on him as her smile vanished. “I hope you do a better job investigating Mrs. Harper’s death than the former sheriff did when Audrey Carlson died.”

  “I try to be thorough.” The woman wasn’t going to give up her suspicions.

  “But isn’t it true that even the most thorough investigations can miss important, even vital, evidence?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer as she went on in a friendlier tone. “Oh, never mind. I shouldn’t be trying to make a mystery of everything. But I did contact Sonny Elwood, as you suggested, and he’s going to meet me at the house later today. If I uncover any clues, I’ll let you know.”

  “Clues to what?”

  “The truth. What else?”

  “As long as you don’t try to turn fiction into truth.” Michael didn’t smile as he said it.

  “But truth is so very elusive at times.” She met his look straight on. “And sometimes it’s swept into a rat hole and never allowed to come to light.”

  “Look, Miss Waverly.” He intentionally didn’t use her first name. “Audrey Carlson died years ago. The investigation is closed, the investigators no longer alive.”

  “Two who know what happened are.” She paused. “Those two are the only ones who probably ever knew what really happened. Bradley Carlson and Fonda Elwood.”

  “Miss Fonda is past telling. Illness has wiped away her credibility. And Carlson supported the verdict of accidental death.”

  “I’m sure he did.” Lana didn’t hide her sarcasm. “But there could be something in the house that might shed light on what really happened.” She looked away from Michael as if she could see all the way to the end of town where the Chandler house stood.

  “What happened is that the stairs are steep. Audrey must have tripped and fallen the same as Geraldine did.” Michael was ready to brush away any suspicions of anything else. Even, maybe especially, his own.

  “Those deadly stairs.” Her smile came back as she laid her hand on his arm. “I’ll watch my step.”

  “That would be wise.” Michael casually shifted away from her and then smiled as he said, “I’ll take you up on that cup of tea another day.” He turned to go down the street.

  “Anytime,” she called after him. “If Audrey’s ghost points out anything to me, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  He looked back over his shoulder. Her smile showed she was all too aware she made him uneasy. “You do that. Just remember to be careful. We don’t need any more accidents.” He stressed the word “accidents.”

  At the courthouse, Betty Jean’s laugh drifted out to meet Michael when he went in the back entrance. Vernon Trent must be searching out antiques in the courthouse. Searching out something anyway. He needed to corner the man and ask his intentions. Michael might not actually be Betty Jean’s brother, but he was close enough.

  A little squeal of a laugh topped Betty Jean’s. Stella Pinkston. She must have come down from the county clerk’s office to join in the fun. Maybe she had eyes for Vernon too. That suited Michael. Stella claimed being married didn’t mean a girl had to quit looking. So if she was ready to shift her eyes from Michael to Vernon Trent, that would be good.

  A man’s low voice rumbled and the laughter stopped. Didn’t sound like Trent. Certainly wasn’t Lester, although it was almost time for him to be back from his school crossing job.

  No need standing in the hall doing a guessing game. Better to find out.

  The man looked around at Michael when he stepped into the office. Nothing like Vernon Trent. This man was a couple inches taller than Michael. His dark hair didn’t show any gray, but his hairline was receding a bit. His
nose was a little big, but it didn’t detract from his looks. Maybe because his hazel eyes were so full of life and almost commanded attention. No wonder Stella barely glanced Michael’s way. Betty Jean’s cheeks showed a flattering touch of pink too.

  The man’s clothes were a little rumpled, as if he’d been wearing them for a while.

  “You must be Grant Harper.” Michael held his hand out toward the man, who took it in a firm grasp.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d remember me, Michael.” The man’s smile was that of a successful, confident man.

  “Can’t say that I do. Lucky guess.”

  Harper’s smile didn’t waver. “To be honest, I don’t remember you from our school days either, but your uniform gave you away. But I do remember Betty Jean and Stella from those days.” He glanced back over at the women. “We were just rehashing old times.”

  “Come on, Grant,” Stella spoke up. “You make us sound ancient.”

  “Oh, sorry about that, Stella. But I guess I’m feeling sort of ancient today. Losing my mother like this. I thought she’d live to be a hundred.” The lines of his face deepened as his smile disappeared and his eyes looked moist with unshed tears.

  Michael liked the man more at once. “Her death had to be a shock to you.”

  Betty Jean came around her desk to put her hand on Grant’s shoulder. “It was a shock to us all. Your mother was such a strong person.”

  Stella looked uncomfortable in the face of Grant’s grief. She wobbled a bit on her too-high heels as she backed away from him. “Gee, I’m sorry too, Grant. But I better get back to work before I get in trouble with the boss.” She headed for the door without a backward glance. Her heels clicked on the tiled hallway up to the county clerk’s office.

  Grant didn’t look around at her. His eyes were on Betty Jean. He rubbed the corners of his eyes with his fingertips and managed a shaky smile. “Now don’t start saying what a wonderful woman she was. I know how my mother was. Demanding. Obnoxious at times. Pushy all the time.”

  “But she was your mother and she was so proud of you. You should have heard her when you got in at MIT. That’s all we heard about for weeks. Her brilliant son.” Betty Jean had a tender smile.

  Michael knew Betty Jean had a soft heart, but she rarely allowed anybody a glimpse of it. Now this guy had been back in Hidden Springs ten minutes and she was touching his shoulder. Maybe Michael’s uneasy feelings about Vernon Trent weren’t as big a problem as he thought.

  She was still talking, peering up at Grant Harper. “I think she sold ten houses that month. Had everybody ready to move just to help with your tuition.” Betty Jean shot a look over at Michael. “You remember that, don’t you, Michael?”

  “Can’t say that I do. But if anybody could sell ten houses in a month, it would have been Geraldine.” Michael put his hands in his pockets and leaned back against his desk.

  Grant sighed. The tears gone. “I should have come back to see her more. But I was always so busy and she said she liked coming down to Florida.” He looked over at Michael. “Do you think I could see where she died?”

  When Michael didn’t answer right away, he rushed on. “I guess that sounds sort of morbid, but it just seems like I should know.”

  “Of course you should.” Betty Jean tightened her hand on his arm. “Michael will be glad to arrange it.” She shot a glance over at Michael.

  “Sure thing. If you think that will help you.”

  “You said it was the Chandler house, didn’t you?” Again Grant didn’t wait for an answer. “I remember that place. A beautiful old Queen Anne–style house.”

  “Yes. She fell down the upper stairs,” Michael said.

  “Rushing too much probably.” Resignation was in Grant’s voice. “She was always in a hurry. I’m sometimes the same way. Always more to do. Never enough time, but maybe I’ll learn something from this. To take time. To smell the roses.” His eyes went to Betty Jean again.

  Her cheeks got pinker. “We should all do that.”

  The phone rang and jerked Betty Jean off that cloud she looked ready to float away on.

  “Want me to get it, Betty Jean?” Michael asked.

  “You don’t have to ask my permission to answer the phone.” She gave Michael a look. “But no, I’ll answer it.” She turned back to her desk, punched a button, and picked up the receiver.

  As she went through her sheriff’s office spiel, Michael asked when Grant wanted to go to the Chandler house. “I’ll have to talk to the owner’s nephew to get a key.”

  “Not today. I just got to town and need to make Mother’s arrangements at the funeral parlor. I came here because I thought maybe you might have Mother’s handbag with her house keys.”

  “Justin Thatcher took your mother’s things with her body to the funeral home. Do you need directions?”

  “No.” The man pressed his lips together for a moment. “Simply courage. I’m having a hard time wrapping my mind around Mother being gone. It just doesn’t seem right. But it has to be faced.”

  He waved to Betty Jean, who punched the call on hold to tell him goodbye.

  Michael waited until his footsteps went up the hallway before he said, “Nice guy.”

  “Yes.” Betty Jean stared toward the door without picking up the call again. “He’s changed a lot since school. Wore glasses back then. Always studying.”

  “Guess that turned out well for him.” Michael sat down behind his desk. “Must not be Vernon on the phone.”

  “Who?” She looked at the phone in her hand.

  “Vernon Trent. You know. The antique dealer. The one you spent the weekend with.”

  “I didn’t spend the weekend with Vernon. I simply helped him list some of his items online to sell.” She glared over at Michael. “If it’s any of your business. Which it isn’t.”

  She punched the button and began talking into the phone again as she jotted something down on a notepad. “Yes, ma’am. Cows in the road can be very dangerous. I’ll send somebody right out.”

  Betty Jean put down the phone and handed Michael the note. “You get to be cowboy this morning.”

  Michael looked at the address. Miles out in the county. By the time he got there, the farmer would probably have the cows back in the pasture and the fence fixed. “Why don’t you call Lester? He could use his lights.”

  “Lester is taking his mother to the doctor this morning. We’re getting low on deputies around here, so looks like you’re it.” Betty Jean grinned.

  “You think you can hold down the office all by yourself with all these guys courting your favor?”

  “I’ll manage.” She pointed toward him and then the door. “Go chase some cows. Oh, and be careful not to step in anything.”

  20

  Maggie tried to pay attention in class and not think about going to Miss Fonda’s house after school. But no matter how hard she tried to block it away, the sight of Mrs. Harper’s body at the bottom of those steps had a way of popping into her mind like a jack-in-the-box somebody kept winding up to scare her.

  It did scare her. A lot. What scared her even more was that phone call and how it was making her wonder if Mrs. Harper hadn’t simply tripped and fallen. Maggie couldn’t bear to think what that might mean. Except she did know she was in trouble. If she talked, she was in trouble. If she didn’t talk, she was in trouble.

  A different kind of trouble but trouble nevertheless. Trouble with her conscience. A person was supposed to do what was right. If whoever had been in Miss Fonda’s house pushed Mrs. Harper, then Maggie could be aiding and abetting a murderer. That was what police called it when somebody helped out a criminal. She wasn’t exactly helping anybody out. Except by being quiet and not telling what she knew.

  She hadn’t seen anything. She had heard somebody. A voice that sounded nothing like the man on the phone. But she hadn’t seen anything.

  The person obviously saw her. The person must have still been in the house when she went out the back door. She’d been so s
ure she heard a door open and close before she climbed down from the tower room. Maybe her ears had tricked her. That didn’t matter now. What mattered was that he must have been hiding somewhere. Watching her.

  A creepy chill swept through her. She stared at her algebra book and tried to concentrate on the problems, but the numbers on the page blurred. She hoped Miss Keane wouldn’t call on her. She’d never come up with the right answer. Not the way her head was spinning.

  She had to tell somebody. Trouble for her or not. But then, if the man had killed once to make sure Mrs. Harper didn’t call the sheriff, he might carry through his threats if Maggie went to the police.

  It wasn’t just her she had to worry about. She had to think about Jesse. The man had sounded dead serious. Dead. She tried to push that word out of her head, but it sank claws down and wouldn’t let go. Dead. Mrs. Harper was dead. Eyes-open-staring-at-nothing dead. Another shiver ran through Maggie.

  If something happened to Jesse because of some dumb thing she did . . . She couldn’t stand to even think about that. That would be worse, much worse, than getting in trouble for being in Miss Fonda’s house. She could weather that.

  Maggie jumped when the final bell rang. She hadn’t heard what Miss Keane had assigned. She’d have to call somebody to find out. When she shut her book and stood up, Miss Keane stepped in front of her.

  “Is something wrong, Maggie?” Miss Keane’s intense look froze Maggie in her tracks. “I don’t think you heard a word I said today.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Keane.” Maggie stared down at her shoes. “I’ll do better tomorrow.”

  “If you’re concerned about not understanding the lesson, you can stay after school and I’ll help you. You don’t want to get behind.”

  Miss Keane sounded almost friendly. Miss Keane never sounded friendly. Everybody in school was afraid of her. Everybody but Anthony. Maggie peeked up at Miss Keane. Anthony must have said something to her about Maggie having problems with algebra, but Maggie didn’t dare ask if that was true. Never in a million years. She shifted back and forth on her feet and clutched her algebra book close to her chest. “I can’t today. I have to help my mother this afternoon.”