Raspberry Crush

by Jill Winters

  Billy swallowed, feeling a lump of indescribable emotion form in her throat. "Well... um... did you ever loan him the money?" she asked.

  Pen shook her head. "No. He was very proud and old-fashioned; he felt strange taking the money from me, but he finally said he would think about it. The next thing I knew, he was gone." Billy waited for her to say more. "He left me a Dear John letter, telling me that he was sorry, but that he had to leave Massachusetts. He said someone from his past was after him and he couldn't bear to get me involved."

  "Someone from his past," Billy echoed, as unsettling anxiousness frittered manically in her chest, making her breath come up short. "Is that who he'd owed money to?"

  "I don't know; I suppose," Pen said with a sigh of resignation. "That's why I wish I had asked him more about his background. Where exactly he'd grown up, what his life was like before he met me. Maybe then I would've been able to make more sense of things."

  She looked down at her hands folded on her lap for a moment, and when she looked back up her eyes were a little glassy. "Oh, look at me, will you?" she said, smiling wanly. "I'm just an old fool, still letting myself believe there was any truth in that Dear John letter. It was all a lie, I'm sure. Ted left me and gave me a ridiculous story, and to this day I still like to tell myself that maybe, just maybe, the story was the truth."

  Billy's heart sank. Her gut tightened into a tense knot and churned with frustration. On the one hand she felt terrible for the hurt and rejection her aunt had suffered. Been there, done that. She and Seth had dated only a few months, too, but when he'd left Billy had been crushed. Almost unbearably sad. Not to mention in denial and a little desperate to rationalize.

  Still... Billy wasn't so sure Pen was rationalizing. She wasn't so sure that Ted's Dear John letter had been the absolute truth.

  God, was it crazy to think that...

  Maybe Ted's death had not been an accident after all?

  Her mind raced frantically with the disturbing but undeniable facts. Ted had grown up in Massachusetts. Nobody in Churchill seemed to like him, yet nobody seemed to know him, either. Or so they claimed. Sally Sugarton and her friends had joked loudly about Ted's nut allergy—an allergy that he'd obviously been careful about, yet he somehow managed to ingest a high enough dose of nuts to kill him in a matter of moments.

  He'd told Penelope that he owed someone money. He'd said someone from his past had been after him. God, was it possible that that someone had finally caught up with him? Had someone from his past finally gotten him after all?

  "Billy, what is it? You look like you've seen a ghost."

  She wasn't even going to touch that. "No... it's nothing." Okay, she could not tell Pen about Ted's death. Not yet. Not when so much was left unexplained. Billy did not believe for one second that Ted had died by accident or because of pure carelessness. Not anymore, not after what Pen had told her.

  Pen...

  She still thought that Ted had dumped her cold. That he'd provided a bullshit excuse, abandoned her, made a fool of her. Billy didn't believe that, but she couldn't be absolutely positive unless she found out what had really happened to the elusive Ted Schneider—both then and now.

  Stroking Pike Bishop's fur, Billy gazed into the fireplace, watching flames flicker and listening to wood crackle as Penelope sipped her tea. If Ted had been murdered, Billy was determined to find out why. Now, of course, her interest was personal.

  * * *

  When she got home that night, her machine was blinking. There was a message from Mark explaining that his cell was dead. He gave her another number to call, and when Billy dialed it, there were two rings before a woman answered.

  "Oh, hi... is Mark there?" Billy asked.

  "Hold on," the woman said. "Who's this, please?"

  "This is Billy," she said, wanting to ask the same question, but the words didn't come quickly enough.

  A few moments later Mark came on the line. "Billy?"

  "Yeah, hi. Who was that woman? And what number is this?"

  "Oh, that was my friend's girlfriend. They've been over here hanging out, and she let me borrow her cell phone to call you. She said I could give you the number to call me back."

  "Oh, I see," Billy said, knowing the explanation was reasonable, but she couldn't help feeling irked. If Mark had time to hang out with his friends on a weeknight, why didn't he have time to hang out with her?

  "So how was your night, cutie?" His super-upbeat, thrilled-to-hear-from-her demeanor softened her annoyance. They talked for about fifteen minutes. She told him what happened at the jubilee, but didn't mention Aunt Penelope's connection to the man who'd died. She didn't feel like getting into it at the moment, but she'd do it in person—which reminded her... "So when can I see you?" she asked. "How about a sleepover one night this week?"

  "Let me think...."

  "C'mon it'll be fun," she said coaxingly, then joked, "I won't try anything, I swear."

  Mark chuckled. "I'd definitely love to do that, Billy, but... well, let me check my work schedule and get back to you. I'm going to some pretty out-of-the-way stores this week, so I'll need to get an early start. Plus, I'll probably get a better night's sleep in my own bed."

  "Well, I don't mind having a sleepover at your place...?" she offered, hoping he'd take the bait. Leaning against the wall, she inhaled a frustrated breath, realizing that inviting herself over was not exactly her idea of being swept off her feet, but it would have to do.

  "You know, this week I honestly think it'll be tough," Mark said jovially. Meanwhile, Billy felt like disappointment had punched her in the stomach. She and Mark obviously liked each other, but if they didn't spend more time together, how were things ever going to advance to the next level? How were they ever going to grow closer—into a loving couple?

  And putting love aside—what did this boy care more about: sleep or cheap thrills? She was honestly beginning to wonder... was it her?

  "Okay, I understand," she said, finally relenting on the sleepover idea.

  "Great, thanks, Billy, you're the best!" Mark said merrily. "Listen, thanks a lot for being you." She had to roll her eyes at that one. After exchanging a few more pleasantries, he told her he couldn't wait to see her that coming weekend, and then they hung up. Billy threw off her coat, stripped out of her clothes on the way to bathroom, and then jumped into a hedonistically long, hot shower.

  Afterward she rubbed some raspberry-scented body lotion on her legs and arms, slid into a cotton pajama pants and a faded sweatshirt, and curled up on the sofa. Once she was settled under an afghan, she realized that she was craving chocolate, so she flipped on the TV for Pike, who was on the sofa, too, and padded into the kitchen, pulling her wet hair up into a ponytail on the way. Instantly she went for the king-size Special Dark bar in the freezer, but, feeling guilty, she broke it in half. Grabbing an ice-cold Diet Coke from the fridge, she nudged the door closed with her hip and went back to the living room.

  Once Billy was settled back on the sofa, she thought again about Ted Schneider's death. She couldn't get it out of her head that there had been foul play involved, and now that she was home and relaxed, she could really mull over her strategy. She was determined to do some investigating, but where would she even begin?

  The sudden blasting whir of sirens shattered her calm. She put a hand to her heart, a little unnerved as the strident shrill of the siren, which was getting unbearably and unendingly closer. Then she felt a fleeting stab of panic: Maybe her building was the one on fire!

  Quickly she threw back the afghan, climbed off the couch, and headed over to her bay window. With a crisp snap, the shade flew up.

  "Aah!" she yelped, jumping away from the window, startled out of her wits. Her heart slammed hard and frantically against her ribs, and her chest tightened in acute, choking fear. "Oh, my God," she said softly, shaking her head. "Oh, my God."

  Pike started barking like crazy. He must've sensed something was wrong, and, as always, he was right. Something red was smeare
d all over the outside of her window, and she could only shudder to guess what it was. Blood? Guts?

  Whatever it was, it was chunky-style.

  God, I'm gonna be sick, Billy thought, clutching her roiling stomach and trying not to panic. Only after a few deep, ragged breaths was she able to take a closer look at the window. Wait a minute... no... yes.

  Fucking... crazy!

  The red on her window wasn't blood, and it wasn't guts. The goddamn mess was tomatoes.

  Chapter 14

  "Tomatoes?"

  "Uh-huh. Last night I was pretty sure, but today, with the sunlight, I could tell."

  "What the hell?" Melissa said, gripping her black coffee and looking pissed on Billy's behalf as she leaned against the table. She'd come to the back to give Georgette a list of new menu ideas from the suggestion box—told her to "make them happen," because they'd already been cleared with Donna. Now there was a lot of cursing and pans slamming around in the kitchen, but Melissa just ignored it while Billy filled her in on last night's events.

  "And you really think your neighbor did it?" Melissa asked.

  With a sigh, Billy exchanged the tip of her pastry bag for a narrower one. "I never would've thought Lady McAvit was capable of something like that, but... I mean, who else? She's obviously still mad about Pike eating her tomatoes."

  "Ah, so the tomatoes on the window is what—her psychotic, emblematic statement?"

  "I guess," Billy mumbled, shaking her head and crouching down to draw a perfect orange jack-o'-lantern on the fudge frosting. She was in the process of decorating four dozen Halloween cupcakes for the front of the store. "I just can't deal anymore," she continued. "I knocked on her door this morning to try to reason with her, but there was no answer. Should I go to the police?"

  "Hmm... that's a tough one," Melissa said, mulling it over. Billy hoped that, as a law student, Melissa might have some keen insight about these kinds of disputes. The only other person Billy had told so far was Corryn who'd been beyond livid. In fact, it had taken Billy an hour to convince her sister not to storm the brownstone, and to just let her handle it.

  Now Melissa set her coffee down and crossed her arms over her chest. As always, her sleek all-black designer clothes contrasted loudly with Billy's attire—a lilac-colored sweater and bootleg khakis (that were tight on her boot). She told Billy about a case she'd learned about in a law seminar: Two petty neighbors brought every squabble they had to court, until they both ended up too broke to keep their apartments. "I mean, I just want you to keep in mind this is your neighbor we're talking about," Melissa said. "You've got to live with this person, so unless you have proof it was her, getting the police involved might only make things tenser and more unbearable. And you don't want to get into a situation where she sues you, claiming you made conditions in the brownstone 'unlivable.' "

  "What! That's crazy. I—"

  "I know, I know, it sucks," Melissa said sympathetically. "But it's just one of those sticky situations."

  True... and Billy was torn. Last night, after she'd calmed down, she'd paced around her apartment—or maybe she'd paced first to calm down?—and then decided to sleep on it. Lady McAvit was the obvious culprit; who else would expect Billy to understand the significance of tomatoes smeared on her window? It made sense to confront her, but by the same token, if Lady McAvit had done it, could she be anything other than certifiably demented? And in that case, Billy didn't relish the prospect of exacerbating her dementia.

  Besides, she couldn't prove anything. This morning she'd polled some of her neighbors across the street, but none of them had seen anything. That wasn't surprising, though, because of the large oak tree outside the brownstone, with thick, leafy branches that hung right in front of Billy's fire escape.

  Still, the fact remained: She couldn't let Lady McAvit continue to fester in this bizarre pool of animosity. "Okay, I won't get the police involved yet, but what are my other options?"

  Melissa shrugged. "Be nice to her. Kiss her ass." The advice sounded funny coming from a girl who rarely kissed ass and, if anything, inspired others to do so. Still, there was a certain logic to it.

  "All right," Billy said after a moment of reflection. "I will try one more time to smooth things over." Although she'd already apologized twice, and sent a basket of fruit last week, but fine. A little more groveling and maybe the grudge-holding, psychotic battle-ax downstairs would see the light. Then they could settle this and finally move on.

  "It seems like your best bet for now," Melissa agreed. "Be extra friendly when you see her; maybe hold the door for her, bring in her mail."

  Okay, let's not go that far. She wasn't her butler, for chrissake. But she understood the basic concept, and decided to put Lady McAvit out of her mind for the moment.

  And instead she focused on Ted Schneider. What had happened to him? Who was that mysterious stranger? Curiosity stirred wildly inside her; she just couldn't let it drop. And maybe it sounded crazy, but Billy thought if she could find out who killed Ted, then maybe she'd have something to tell her aunt Penelope. If Billy could prove that Ted had been telling the truth—that someone really had been after him—then Aunt Penelope would know, once and for all, that he hadn't been lying to her. That he'd left because he had to.

  Well, she was going to Churchill tomorrow to meet with Greg Dappaport anyway; maybe when she was there, she could do some snooping around.

  Just then Des sauntered into the back. "Hey, what are you guys talking about in here?"

  "Tomatoes," Melissa replied, then smiled sweetly. "You know, those little round things people throw at you and your band?"

  "Ha-ha," he mumbled, rolling his eyes.

  Billy grinned and turned her attention back to the Halloween cupcakes, starting to draw a witch on one, when Katie popped her head through the door to tell them there was a line of customers out front.

  Billy set down her pastry bag to go, when Melissa stopped her. "No, Billy, you finish what you were doing. Des and I can handle it. C'mon," she said, giving her stepbrother a light shove toward the front. He grumbled something about the gluttony of "white-collar sellouts"—i.e., Bella Donna's clientele—and then they were gone.

  Leaving Billy alone with her thoughts, and way too many cupcakes.

  * * *

  That afternoon was windy with the biting chill of autumn. After her shift at the bakery, Billy headed to Churchill to meet with Greg Dappaport. Now, as she turned the corner, she tossed out her café mocha to hug her arms across her chest and rub some heat into her bones.

  The Churchill Art Gallery was a pristine stucco building about two hundred feet from the ocean, with a manicured side lawn and a giant weeping willow. There was a wide stone threshold in front. Was that where her mural would be?

  Sucking in a nervous breath, Billy climbed the white steps that led to the entrance. Clutched to her chest she had her portfolio, which included some of her graphic designs as well as her own drawings. She'd even worn the tried-and-true interview suit, yet was much more nervous for this meeting than she'd been for the one with Kip Belding. Who, by the way, still hadn't called, apparently unable to tap into any open positions besides glorified orderly at Tuck Hospital in Dorchester.

  The interior of the Churchill Art Gallery looked the way one would expect: pristine white carpet, pristine white walls, and splashy paintings all around. Freestanding sculptures filled each corner, and classical music played quietly overhead.

  "Billy?"

  Spinning around, she saw Dappaport shuffling toward her wearing a double-breasted burgundy suit with a blinding yellow neckerchief flapping in his wake. He extended his arms as he approached, and though she felt utterly ridiculous about it, Billy hugged him. "Greg Dappaport," he said by way of reintroduction. "It's lovely to see you again!"

  "Hi," Billy said brightly. "I was so flattered by your call."

  "I know Sally introduced us briefly at the jubilee, but did I meet you before that?"

  Of course, she hadn't planned on men
tioning the incident on the beach, but now that Dappaport had brought it up, she realized it might be a good way to get some information about Ted Schneider, so she pushed her pride aside. "Actually, I did see you on the beach before the jubilee began," she said tentatively, studying his reaction.

  Quizzical for a moment, Dappaport said, "Oh, yes, that's right! How dreadful—I'm afraid you didn't see me at my best. I was having an unfortunate argument with that horrid fisherman who insisted on keeping his obscene eyesore of a boat docked in a prominently visible slip. I'm sorry—-I know it's tacky to speak ill of the dead—but the man seemed intent on ruining the decor of the jubilee, not to mention the town." She nodded with feeling, because he was a potential employer, but inside, she was suppressing a grin. If Dappaport had such a disdain for the tacky, then what was up with that blinding neckerchief? Although, in fairness, it looked somewhat more natural on him than on Fred from Scooby-Doo.

  "In fact, the boat's still docked in the Churchill marina, and I suppose it will be until the man's affairs are settled. The SS Drifter, if you can believe that name. It's just sitting there, silently mocking us all. Anyway, I've decided to give up the crusade." He ran a hand over his widow's peak and smiled genteelly at her. "Now back to our business."

  He went on to explain what he had in mind for the smooth expanse of stone in the front of the gallery: namely, an evocative mural to capture Churchill's "essence." Billy showed him her portfolio, and he seemed impressed. "I notice you have a real affinity for landscape painting," he remarked, flipping through the drawings.

  Smiling, she said, "I suppose it's my favorite." She was about to add that she was open to other approaches when Dappaport told her he liked that—or "fancied" that. (The accent kind of came and went.)

  "Images of nature are timelessly gorgeous," he said with a touch of awe in his voice. "And what's so brilliant is that a picture of the ocean is so expected in a coastal town like ours, it's unexpected. You know?"

  "Yes, I see what you mean," she said, nodding and thinking, This is really going to happen. I'm going to be commissioned for a mural.