Crack Of Death (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 3)

by Jeff Shelby

  Declan must have been a mind reader because as soon as I thought those things, he pulled away. I leaned back, almost toppling over as I tried to steady myself on my haunches.

  “Thank you for that,” Declan said, attempting a grin. But his blue eyes were clouded, his expression unreadable. At least the color was gone from his cheeks.

  “For what?”

  “For the hug,” he said simply. “And for being a good friend. A good person.”

  I wasn’t sure about his last statement but I wasn’t going to argue the point. I was a little freaked out by whatever it was that he’d brought out in me. We’d been friends for a few months now, and I knew he’d harbored feelings for me. Even though I thought he was kind and smart and even cute, I’d never entertained more than a fleeting thought about becoming involved with him. Hugging him just then had changed that and I suddenly couldn’t wait to get out of the church so I could process my thoughts and feelings.

  I somehow managed to get myself back into a standing position without holding on to anything as I hauled myself back up. I looked around for the Simon Says lunches and saw Calvin’s lonely paper sack on the shelf.

  I made a beeline for it. “Alright,” I said, picking up the bag, “I should get this over to Calvin’s. Don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  He started to say something, then closed his mouth and nodded. “Okay. Thank you for doing this, Rainy. And thank you for being you. I hope you know how much I appreciate you.”

  “You don’t have to thank me,” I told him.

  “Well, I’m going to.” He grinned, and his whole face lit up. I felt my heart skip a beat. “And I’m going to thank you properly when this is all said and done. You can count on it.”

  I said goodbye and hurried out the door, unsure what a proper thank you from Declan might look like.

  SIXTEEN

  Calvin was waiting for me.

  I raised my hand to ring the doorbell and the door swung open. Calvin’s white hair had been replaced with a wig of long, dark hair. A goatee was attached to his face and he wore a long black cape and black boots. Strips of silver duct tape were arranged in an odd, geometric design on the black t-shirt he wore. A quick glance told me he was also garbed in black tights. Another pair of ill-fitting ones.

  “Hi, Calvin.”

  He bowed with a flourish. “The Sheriff of Nottingham, at your service,” he said with what I thought was supposed to sound like a British accent.

  I stepped into the apartment. The cardboard castle was still in place, as were the hibiscus plants and potted palms. A mannequin was positioned near the castle, a faceless one with long blond hair and wearing a frothy pink gown.

  “I see you found a Maid Marion,” I said as I walked the lunch over to his kitchen counter.

  “She’ll do,” Calvin said, eyeing the mannequin critically through his bifocals. “Would be much better if I had someone to say her lines.” He glanced at me hopefully.

  “I’m sure you’ll manage just fine,” I said, smiling sweetly.

  “You’re later than I expected,” he said. He was fidgeting with one of the plants, spinning it so that the two red flowers on it were turned toward the camera.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

  He waved a hand. “I don’t mind. Beggars can’t be choosers.” He swept his cape dramatically. “But they can be thieves,” he thundered in another valiant attempt at a British accent. Apparently he was channeling his inner Sheriff of Nottingham.

  I chuckled. Calvin was definitely a hoot, and his theatrics were just what I needed to lift my spirits and to take my mind off of what had happened with Declan.

  But the mood turned somber much too soon. Because he asked, “Who else are you visiting this week?”

  I hesitated. Did he know about Greta? More importantly, had they been friends?

  “Well, I’ve visited Eleanor Dans once,” I told him, hoping I’d remembered her last name correctly. “I’ll probably see her again tomorrow or Friday.” I paused. “And I saw Greta Hedley yesterday.”

  His eyes lit up from behind his glasses. “Greta…haven’t seen her in ages, it seems. How’s she doing these days?”

  I gulped. “Well, um, not good.”

  Calvin wrinkled his brow. “No?”

  I took a deep breath. “She passed away yesterday.”

  Calvin’s eyes widened behind his glasses and his mouth dropped open.

  “I stopped by her place to drop off her lunch,” I explained. “She’d passed in her sleep.”

  “Well now, that’s a darn shame,” Calvin said, sighing. “She was a mighty fine woman.”

  “I’m sorry to be the one to break the news,” I said gently. I really did feel horrible. “Did you know Greta well?”

  “Not well,” Calvin said. He’d walked over to the dining room area and, after navigating his way around the moved loveseat, lowered himself into one of the chairs. “We saw each other at church functions, back when I was a little more mobile. We served on the Holiday Boutique committee a few years. Ran into each other at weddings and graduation parties and the like and, more frequently now, funerals.”

  It was a pointed reminder of his own age, as well as the age of his friends.

  “Do you know if she was sick or anything?” he asked me.

  I shook my head. I wasn’t going to tell him about the sheriff’s suspicions. “I don’t. Honestly, yesterday was my first time visiting with her. I don’t know much about her except that she liked to quilt, she has a daughter, and she used to date a man named George.”

  Calvin scowled at the mention of the other man’s name.

  I noted his reaction with interest. “Are you and George not friends?”

  Calvin drummed his fingers on the table. They were dappled with freckles and age spots, and his knuckles were knobby, almost as though marbles had been inserted under his skin. “We are not friends. At least not anymore,” he said firmly. “Would never stoop to associate with a rapscallion like him.”

  Rapscallion was not a word I’d heard much…if ever.

  “I don’t know much about him,” I said, and hoped that he would feel inclined to fill in information he thought important to pass along.

  He took the bait. “Consider yourself lucky,” he said. His fingers formed into a fist and he pounded the table. “The man is a liar and a cheat.”

  “Oh?”

  Calvin nodded so vigorously, his dark wig tilted forward. He brushed it back, revealing some of his own white hair. He looked like a fashionable skunk.

  “We played golf together a few years back,” Calvin said. His eyes were narrowed behind his glasses, his mouth pinched tight. “He was always writing down the wrong scores, then telling me I was the one who couldn’t remember.” Calvin tapped the side of his head, which sent the wig further sideways. “My body might be going downhill, but this? Sharp as a tack, I tell ya.”

  I just nodded. “Would he get angry with you?” I asked, wondering if Calvin had seen George’s temper.

  “Would he ever! Every time I accused him of changing scores or moving the ball, he’d blow up. You’d think we were starting the next world war. Got so bad, I just stopped playing with him. Especially after he tried to run me over with the golf cart.”

  “He did what?”

  Calvin looked past me, his eyes unfocused. “Couple years ago. We’d played down by Charlottesville. Beautiful course, beautiful spring day. The greens were a little wet and he kept slipping. Scored terribly, and there was no way he could fudge it on the scorecard. I made a birdie on the 17th hole and he lost it. Threw his club and stomped around like a baby and then got in the cart and took off. I thought he was leaving me behind and I called after him. He stopped, did a U-turn and came barreling back at me. Break-neck speed. I had to leap out of the way to keep from getting hit. Ended up slipping a disk in my back.” He rubbed his lower back at the memory. “Took me months to get back in shape for golf. After that, though, I was done
with him. I knew I couldn’t golf with someone who’d tried to kill me.”

  I was glad he’d drawn his line in the sand. If it had been me, I was pretty sure I would have cut ties after the first time George had cheated at a game.

  “Anyway,” Calvin said, frowning, “when I heard about Greta and George dating I just couldn’t believe it. I called her up one day, I was so concerned, but she told me that he was a good man and that he made her happy.” He shrugged. “Who was I to judge?”

  I was silent for a minute.

  Calvin stroked his fake goatee. “I probably shouldn’t be gossiping. Nothing good ever comes from that.”

  “You’re not gossiping,” I said, trying to reassure him. “I was the one who brought him up.” This wasn’t completely true, but I was hoping that was how he would remember it.

  Calvin stood up and straightened his cape. His wig was still askew and his goatee looked like it was coming unattached from the left side of his jaw. “I should probably get back to work,” he told me. “I have three scenes on the docket today and I haven’t filmed a single one.”

  I glanced at the makeshift set and the video camera positioned nearby. “What do you do with the finished movies?”

  Calvin smiled, revealing those perfect white dentures. “Save ‘em.”

  “You don’t watch them? Or share them with anyone?” I’d sort of thought maybe he was doing it for his children or grandchildren, leaving some sort of artistic legacy behind.

  He leaned in conspiratorially. “You ever heard of Prince?”

  “The musician?”

  He nodded.

  “Um, yes.” I was actually surprised that Calvin knew who Prince was.

  “Rumor has it that he had this massive vault of music no one has ever heard. Videos, too.”

  “Okay.”

  He stood up straight, puffing out his chest. A piece of duct tape attached to his shirt curled up and away from the fabric. “That’s what I’m doing. Leaving a vault of my artistic achievements for the world to discover after I’m gone.”

  I bit back a smile. Somehow, I didn’t think Calvin’s vault of artistic offerings would be on the same level of Prince’s purported trove, but what did I know?

  “I should let you get back to that, then,” I said. “I don’t want to stand in the way of artistic genius.”

  Calvin tugged on his cape, fluffing out the back of it. “I am behind schedule,” he admitted. His eyes returned to me. “You’re welcome to stay, if you like. Could use some help with the spotlight and the mic.”

  I pasted on an apologetic smile. “I’d love to stay and help, but I have some other things on the schedule today.”

  His face fell and I felt bad. I hadn’t been entirely truthful; I didn’t really have much of anything on the calendar.

  Except one thing.

  Finding out more about George, Greta’s ex-boyfriend.

  Because the more I found out about him, the more I was becoming convinced that he might have had a hand in Greta’s death.

  SEVENTEEN

  The whole town was at St. Simon’s for Greta’s funeral.

  At least it looked that way.

  The service was scheduled for 10 in the morning and I’d arrived about fifteen minutes early, after spending the entire night before debating whether or not I should go. I was in an odd position: I hadn’t known Greta in life, but I’d discovered her in death. There was the part of me that thought going was the decent, respectful thing to do; however, another part of me thought it might be awkward to attend the funeral of someone I didn’t know.

  But then I realized that several people might be in attendance who I was interested in seeing: namely, George. I wondered how he would act, if he would say anything, and if I’d be able to pick up any clues about whether or not he had somehow been involved in Greta’s death. I was still operating with precious little information. All I knew from the sheriff was that something had been found during her autopsy that pointed to homicide. The sheriff had let it slip that Greta had been poisoned, but unfortunately, I wasn’t in the position to poke around to see if he was right or to ask questions that might shed more light.

  If he was considering me a suspect, though, it was my duty and responsibility, even if only to myself, to seek out as much information as I could. And that included finding out every last detail about other potential suspects. Lila Bartholomew was certainly at the top of my list, but I had the sneaking suspicion that George belonged right up there with her.

  The parking lot of the church was packed, and I ended up driving through it and parking on the road, about a block away from the church. I hurried toward the building, paying attention to the cars turning from the main road. Most were occupied by elderly couples, many of them dressed in black. More mourners.

  I glanced down at my outfit. I’d struggled to find something to wear. Working for Mack had not required much in the way of professional attire. I could have come to work in pajamas and he wouldn’t have cared. I usually went to the office in khakis or dress slacks and simple blouses, so my inventory of nicer outfits was severely limited. I’d settled on a pair of black pants and a slate gray blouse and hoped the combination looked suitable for a funeral. I made a mental note to perhaps invest in a simple black dress the next time I went in to Charlottesville or back up to D.C.

  Several familiar faces greeted me as I walked through the doors of the church. Sophia and Walter Rey were standing near the door to the sanctuary. Walter wore a dark suit and Sophia was in a simple black dress that somehow managed to look like it was fresh off the runway. Dawn was there, too, with her husband Martin. I almost didn’t recognize her. Gone was the Wicked Wich t-shirt and jeans, replaced with a black skirt and sweater set. Martin had switched out his blue jeans for a pair of black ones, and he’d paired it with a dark gray polo. Our color choices made us look like twins.

  I nodded at the familiar faces, including Vivian and an older man who I assumed was her father. The cashier from Toby’s was there, as was Eleanor Dans, the other woman who had been on the visiting schedule the day I’d found Greta. Carol, Greta’s friend, was there, too. She was surrounded by a group of elderly women but she acknowledged me with a tip of her head and a small smile.

  Declan was stationed by the door to the sanctuary, directly across from Sophia. He was wearing a black shirt and white collar and he looked positively preacher-like. It was a little jarring, especially considering it had been a while since I’d seen him garbed that way, and especially because we’d shared what felt like an intimate hug just two days earlier. He caught my eye and offered a smile, a sweet, sad one that threatened to melt my heart.

  I started toward him but stopped when I heard the unmistakable sound of a dog barking. I turned toward the front door. George was strolling in with his little dog at his heels. She was clearly uneasy around all the people, or maybe the unfamiliar building, because she skittered back and forth behind him, yelping and yapping.

  Declan quickly moved toward him. “George, I’m sorry but—”

  With some effort, George leaned down and scooped up the dog. “Pastor Murphy, I know this is a little unconventional, bringing a dog to a service—”

  Declan nodded, opening his mouth to speak, but George kept talking.

  “But, you see, I need her here. For support.” He thrust the dog closer to Declan and after a moment’s hesitation he reached out and stroked the dog’s ears. “This here is Greta. I…I renamed her.”

  Several people were now openly watching the exchange.

  “George—”

  “Please, Pastor Murphy, I need her here with me.” George’s voice was shaky and even from where I stood, I could see the tears welling in his eyes. “This dog is all I have left.”

  I could see Declan hesitating. I was certain he didn’t want a dog in the sanctuary but I also knew he was the kind of person who couldn’t bear to say no to a grieving man. Even if that meant allowing a Chihuahua at a funeral.

  Declan’s shoulders
dropped and he leaned close to George, speaking in a low voice. But I didn’t need to hear his words to know what he was telling him. The dog could stay.

  This was confirmed by the smile that appeared on George’s face, a smile that disappeared when Carol marched over to them.

  “Please tell me you’re not going to allow him in here,” she said to Declan.

  A frown creased Declan’s forehead. “The dog? I know it’s a little unusual but—”

  Carol stamped her foot. “Not the dog. I don’t care if the dog stays.” She pointed her finger at George. “He’s the one who needs to go!”

  George’s face turned red and a nasty scowl crossed his features. “Now, look here,” he snarled, but Declan put his hand on his arm and gently squeezed.

  “This is neither the time or place for disagreements,” he said calmly. “We are here to pay our respects to Greta, a dear friend of both of yours. Whatever issues you might have with each other must be set aside today. Do you understand?”

  One of Carol’s sturdy black pumps tapped the floor. Her arms were crossed and she stared at George defiantly. I didn’t think she agreed with Declan at all, but then she looked around and realized the entire room had grown silent, watching the exchange. She had the decency to blush and she simply nodded and stepped away.

  Right into the back of Lila Bartholomew.

  Lila whirled around, a vicious frown on her face. “Watch where you’re going, you nimrod!”

  Carol gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  Lila straightened her short frame. She was dressed in a bright purple caftan that looked to be about four sizes too big for her. She wore purple feather earrings and a massive amethyst ring. Color coordination appeared to be very important to her.