He opened one bleary eye, closed it and went right back to snoring.
“Gee, thanks.”
Chapter 26
No sooner had the door shut behind Marnie than Matthew came charging down the stairs. “I heard the door. Is she gone?”
I looked at him, wondering if maybe I did feel more than just friendship for him. Nah. No way.
“Why are you looking at me that way?”
“You didn’t take a shower, did you? You only said that as an excuse to leave.”
He shrugged. “Guilty as charged. I wasn’t in the mood to sit around and listen to gossip. What did she want, anyway?”
“Oh, nothing, really,” I said. “She only stopped by to get more yarn for her project.” Okay, that was an out-and-out lie, but the way I saw it, if Matthew had not hesitated to report to Mike about me, I wasn’t about to tell him Marnie’s gun was missing. He’d probably run right out and blab about it to Mike.
He opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice. He poured two glasses, handing one to me. “I hate to tell you, but Mike was right. It was completely stupid of you to go snooping around. I want you to promise me you won’t ever do anything like that again.”
So we were back to that again, were we? “Oh, for God’s sake, I’ve already promised Mike.”
Looking serious, he said, “This time I want you to promise me.”
“Fine. I swear I won’t do it again.” It was an easy enough promise to make. “I don’t know why you should worry. I mean, how many murder scenes am I likely to come across? This is Briar Hollow, for God’s sake.”
“All right,” he said. “Let’s talk about something more pleasant.”
“Gladly,” I muttered.
He picked up the grocery bag he’d left on the counter and plunked it on the table, pulling out a quart of milk, a container of yogurt and a box of cereal. “I picked up breakfast for us.”
I stared at the box he had just placed on the table. “Froot Loops! Ugh!” I was halfway out of my chair. “You don’t really want to eat those, do you? Let me make you something health—”
“Don’t tell me what I want,” he said brusquely. “Right now, this is exactly what I want.”
I groaned, and hopping on one foot, I headed for the refrigerator. “You can have your Froot Loops if you like, but I’m making myself something else.”
“You. Sit,” he ordered. “I got something else for you.”
I returned to my chair, pretending to be miffed, but the truth was I would have eaten just about anything if it meant not having to make it myself. Cooking while hopping around on one foot was no easy feat—pardon the pun. From the grocery bag, he extracted a smaller brown one and overturned the contents on my plate—two raisin bran muffins, still warm from the oven.
“I figured these might be more up your alley,” he said.
Just when I had decided that the man was a Neanderthal with the emotional development of a two-year-old, he went and did something sweet. “That’s so nice of you,” I said, feeling touched.
“Hey, it’s only muffins, kiddo. Don’t make a big deal about it.” He tore open the box of cereal and filled his bowl. “When does your weaving group get together again?” he asked, picking through the colorful mini rings until he found a green one. He flicked it into the air, catching it in his mouth. I bit my tongue.
“Tomorrow,” I said. “And then maybe once or twice a week until we have ten blankets. That’s the number I pledged for the hospital.” I broke off a piece from my muffin and bit into it, my thoughts taking a sharp turn. “I just can’t figure Dolores out. She likes weaving about as much as I might enjoy playing with snakes. On the other hand, Mercedes seems to enjoy it.”
“Mercedes always struck me as a nice girl. Then, about a year ago, she started getting into trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
He scowled. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said that. Mike told me in confidence. He’d be furious if I told anyone.” He picked through his bowl until he found another of the tiny green cereal rings. “I understand why David joined the group. He just picked the better of two evils.” He shrugged. “Maybe Dolores is looking for activities to do with her daughter.”
I huffed. “More likely she’s looking for activities to do with David.”
Matthew’s eyes lasered into mine. “Does that bother you?”
Every time I mentioned David’s name, it somehow came out sounding like I had a thing for the guy. I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be silly. I just think she could have thought of some other way of bumping into him.”
He chuckled. “I have to agree with you there. She doesn’t strike me as the weaving type.”
“On the other hand, she hasn’t exactly been flirting with him. It’s more like she’s trying to pump him for information; as if David might know something about her husband’s death.” I took a sip of coffee and settled back into my chair. “Would you happen to know if David ever went hiking with Greg Hanson?”
“Hell, a lot of people went hiking with him. Even I did,” he said, and then, his eyes boring into mine, he added, “I don’t want you going around playing detective. You hear me?”
“Of course.” I took a bite of muffin. It wasn’t nearly as good as Marnie’s, but wanting to change the subject, I said, “Mm-mm, these are delicious. Where did you get them?”
“The coffee shop up the street,” he said. He casually chose another cereal ring and tossed it up. I watched it fly a few inches above his head, back down, and straight into his waiting mouth.
“Tell me something. Why can’t you just pour milk into your cereal and eat it like an adult?”
He grinned. “I thought women liked men to be boyish.” He repeated his performance with another Froot Loop. “But what do I know about women, right? I’m thirty-seven, and not one has ever consented to marry me.”
This piqued my interest. “How many times have you proposed?”
He laughed. “Never. Which is just as bad, I suppose.”
I bobbed my eyebrows. “Worse, actually. In my experience, men who haven’t married by their late thirties have a problem with intimacy.”
Matthew roared with laughter. “Are you telling me I have a problem with intimacy?” He looked pointedly at me. “What about women who haven’t married by their mid-thirties?”
Blood rushed to my face. Touché.
Chapter 27
Matthew left the house, giving me a fresh warning on his way out. “You had better be here when I come back. I don’t want you traipsing around town, looking for clues.”
“I’m staying right here, I promise,” I said. I swear, I meant it at the time—honestly. But, as it happened, I was just wiping the table when the phone rang. I put down the dish towel and answered.
“Hi, Della.” It was Jenny. I was surprised at how happy I was to hear her voice. “Can I come over for a few minutes? There’s something I’d like to run by you.”
Suddenly an idea popped into my head. “Is it something we can talk about over lunch? Because if it is, maybe we could grab a sandwich at Bottoms Up.”
Ever since Marnie had mentioned David’s car being parked on her street the evening of the murder, I couldn’t help but wonder if he had lied about his movements that night.
“Are you planning to play detective?” she asked, with a chuckle in her voice. “If you are, I’ll be your Watson.”
“Sounds like a plan, but you have to promise to not tell Matthew.”
“Not a word, I swear. It’ll be fun to do something exciting for a change. Nothing ever happens in this town.”
Yeah, right. Nothing but murder.
• • •
As far as restaurants and bars go, Bottoms Up did not impress. It was on the opposite side of town, and from the looks of it, it could have been there for fifty years or two hundred yea
rs. It was that worn-looking. The first thing one noticed upon driving up was the large neon sign showing a shapely blond girl leaning over until her healthy behind was—you guessed it—pointing up. The building—surprisingly large considering the size of the town—was built of aged barn wood, and was set smack-dab in the middle of a gravel parking lot, which I imagined was filled to capacity on weekends with trucks, pickups and SUVs from every little town within driving distance.
“It’s huge.”
“People around here use it for weddings and parties. During the week it’s pretty quiet,” she said, as I noted the half dozen cars in the parking lot.
“We’re in luck. That’s Sam’s car,” Jenny said, pointing her chin toward a Honda with so much rust that guessing its original color would have presented a real challenge.
“Who’s Sam?”
“A guy I know. I used to babysit him when he was a kid.” She turned off the motor. “He’s bound to know something. He’s a regular here. It’ll be easy to start a conversation with him without it looking like we’re fishing for information.”
“Good idea,” I replied.
We got out of the car, and a minute later I followed her into a dark room. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark. And then I almost wished they hadn’t. I was in a wood-paneled room, facing a bar that ran the entire length of the back wall. Half a dozen patrons swiveled on their stools to look at us. I glanced to my left, where eight or so tables stood empty. To my right was the pool table, also unoccupied. To say the place lacked charm was an understatement.
“Not very elegant, is it?”
Jenny chuckled. “If you were planning to order anything fancier than a burger and fries, I suggest you rethink that.” And then she marched over, calling out, “Hi, Sam. How are you doing?”
I followed on my crutches as fast as I could.
Sam looked to be in his mid-twenties, wearing painter’s pants splattered with myriad paint colors. He set down his glass of soda, turned and smiled. “Hey, Jenny. I can’t remember the last time I saw you.”
“That’s because you don’t need babysitting anymore,” she said, sliding onto the stool next to his. I took the next one over.
Sam chuckled politely and leaned forward to look at me. “What happened to your foot?”
Jenny answered for me. “Sprain.”
He nodded. “What brings you and your friend to our watering hole?”
“My friend Della,” she said, indicating me, “just moved here, and I thought I’d show her all the interesting spots around town.”
Sam grinned. “I sure hope you took Della to see the local Laundromat.”
At the look on my face, he and Jenny burst into laughter.
“Don’t mind Sam. He’s just pulling your leg. He used to tease me mercilessly when I was his sitter.” She turned back to him and said, “How have you been, Sam? And how’s your mother?”
“Ma’s good. As for me—” He shrugged. “I’m working on a kitchen renovation for the Jordans down the street,” he said, naming a family I had never heard of. “I was all set to start work on Jeremy Fox’s project, but that job hit the skids when the contamination report went public.” He turned to me. “You’re the lady who owns the knitting shop, right?”
“Weaving shop,” I corrected him.
He nodded, but I doubted he cared about the difference. His next words proved me right. “You could have knocked me over with a feather when I heard David Swanson was taking up knitting.”
“Weav—”
Before I could say any more, he cut me off, saying, “And you’re also the lady who found Fox’s body, right?”
I nodded again. “That’s right. Actually, David Swanson was with me,” I added, thrilled that Sam had just brought up the subject.
“So I heard. He was here the night before, you know. The guys were teasing him mercilessly about him knitting baby blankets.” I didn’t bother correcting him. “But I have to hand it to him. He was a good sport about it and just let it roll off his back.”
“I imagine the police must have been by to ask questions about that night,” said Jenny.
“They sure did. I wouldn’t want to be in Swanson’s shoes,” he said, dabbing a french fry in ketchup. “He picks a fight with the guy, threatens to kill him, and then a few weeks later the guy turns up dead.”
Good thing he doesn’t know about the confrontation the night of the murder, I thought.
He shook his head, continuing, “It’s so obvious he killed the guy that it almost makes me think there’s something fishy about it. You know?” He glanced back at Jenny. “Nobody could be that stupid, right?”
“That’s what I think, too,” I said. Sam gave me a long, measuring look.
“What did the police want to know?” Jenny asked.
“They wanted to know what time David arrived and what time he left.”
“He was here all evening, wasn’t he?” I said.
“I have no idea,” he said. I interpreted this sudden reluctance to talk as neighborly loyalty. “He was still here when I left, but I was only here till eight or so.”
Before I could ask another question, the bartender, a burly guy with curly red hair and a week’s growth of beard, approached. “What can I get you two beauties?”
Jenny smiled. “You’re such a charmer, Frank. I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Not at all.” He winked. “I call it like I see it.”
Without glancing at the menu, Jenny said, “I’ll have a club sandwich, no fries.”
I loved fries, but decided that maybe I should follow Jenny’s example. “I’ll have the same.”
“Good choice,” Frank said. And then he called over his shoulder in a booming voice, “Hey, Lorna. Two clubs, hold the fries.” He turned back to us. “Coming right up.”
I looked back at Sam, hoping he hadn’t been distracted from my question. I was in luck.
He called after the burly man as he was walking away, “Hey, Frank, the police questioned you about David Swanson, didn’t they?”
The big man turned around. “They sure did. Mike wanted to know what time David got here—what time he left—who he talked to—how many drinks he had. Man, that jerk kept at me like David was public enemy number one.” All at once he realized that he was talking to Jenny and turned deep red. “Oh, uh, sorry, Jenny. I know you were married to the guy, but”—he shook his head—“you gotta admit, Mike ain’t all there anymore.” He said this apologetically, tapping the side of his head with an index finger. “He’s just plain weird these days.”
Jenny seemed taken aback at first, and then she recovered. “He tends to get a bit intense when he goes into police mode.”
Frank looked like he wanted to say something more, but he closed his mouth and just nodded.
Sam broke the tense silence. “So what did you tell them?”
Frank ignored the question. “Do you ladies want something to drink with your sandwiches?”
We both ordered diet drinks and once he had brought them over, I repeated Sam’s question. “If you don’t mind my asking, what did you tell the police?”
Frank leaned his elbows on the bar and said, “Now, why would you want to know what I told the police? I bet you got your heart set on David Swanson.”
The other men along the bar stared openly, waiting for my answer. Suddenly I saw myself becoming the latest subject of gossip around Briar Hollow. “No, nothing like that,” I said hastily, trying to cover my fluster. “I’m just curious. I was with him when we found the body, and he seemed so shocked. I just don’t believe he could have done it. Nobody could be that good an actor.”
Frank laughed. “In that case you haven’t met Wayne here.” He tilted his head toward the guy to his left. “He can be real convincing when he tells strangers that he never played pool in his life.”
&nbs
p; Wayne laughed. “Either of you two ladies wanna take me on for a game of pool? Never played the game in my life. I swear.”
Everybody along the bar laughed, including Jenny and me.
“Very funny,” said Jenny when the laughter quieted. “But I’m curious too. What did you tell the cops, Frank?”
Frank hesitated and then shrugged. “Like I told them, I can’t keep track of everyone’s comings and goings when I’m working. I couldn’t say exactly what time he got here. But I checked the credit card charges, and his first charge was at exactly seven thirty and his last one was at ten past nine.”
I was stunned, and struggled to keep a straight face. “But he didn’t necessarily leave right after paying his tab, did he?”
Frank shook his head, giving me a knowing smile. “Hate to disappoint you, darling, but one thing I did see was that he paid and two minutes later he went straight to that phone,” he said, pointing to an old-fashioned pay phone in the corner. He leaned closer. “I couldn’t help but wonder why he would use a pay phone rather than the cell phone in his pocket.”
My mouth went dry. Unless he didn’t want a call to be traced back to him, I thought. After all, a phone call had sent Jeremy running out into the night. This amounted to no more than circumstantial evidence, but it was starting to stack up. Weakly I asked, “And did he actually use it?”
“He did. He made a call—oh—I’d say no more than two or three minutes before leaving.” A bell rang from the back and Frank said, “That’ll be your clubs,” and walked away.
I took a sip of my soda, feeling stunned. None of what I had just heard would help David in any way—in fact, quite the opposite. The police would claim that he left the bar in plenty of time to meet Jeremy and kill him, and that the whole attack thing was staged.
Suddenly my own confidence in his innocence was shaken. Could I have been wrong about him? Could David be such a good actor that he could have faked his reaction upon seeing Jeremy Fox’s body?
Looming Murder Page 17
