“We don’t need to be in a hurry anymore,” said Miss May. “We’re in the van. We got away.”
“I know.” Teeny buckled her seatbelt. “But now I’m hungry.”
Miss May laughed and took a hard left turn. “We’re right near Ewing’s Eats.”
Teeny rubbed her tiny hands together. “I’m well aware. Now let’s see how fast this baby can go.”
Minutes later, the three of us were seated at a picnic table outside Ewing’s Eats. Ewing’s was a little burger shack outside of Pine Grove. The eponymous proprietor was one of the nicest guys in town. He gave us each a burger and fries for free but he made Teeny pay for her chocolate milkshake with triple sprinkles. I think just because he got a kick out of seeing her pout.
Mr. Ewing smiled as he approached and placed the food on our picnic table. “There you go, ladies. You enjoy, now.”
Miss May smiled. “We always do.”
“Hey,” said Mr. Ewing. “Are you three working on solving the case of the actor’s assassination?”
“Ohhh alliterative case title, I like it,” Teeny said.
“Thanks,” Mr. Ewing said. “You think you’re gonna figure out who killed him?”
Miss May popped a fry in her mouth. “That’s the plan.”
Mr. Ewing looked down and picked at his nails. “Do you think if you have any important breakthroughs here at my restaurant… Will you mention it to the newspapers?”
“We might have accommodated your request, if somebody didn’t have to pay for her triple sprinkle milkshake,” said Teeny, crossing her arms.
Miss May side-eyed Teeny, then looked over to Mr. Ewing. “Of course we’ll mention it. You don’t need to give us food for free.”
“It’s the least I could do,” said Mr. Ewing. “Just mention me in the newspaper! Always looking for ways to drum up business. And if someone snaps and murders me one day? Will you three find out who did it?”
Miss May shook her head. “No one is going to murder you, Patrick. You’re the nicest guy in town.”
I nodded. “And you make the best fries in New York State.”
Mr. Ewing grinned. “I don’t know. I have a few enemies. Teeny here seemed pretty miffed when I charged her for that milkshake.”
“Oh, I’m miffed alright,” Teeny said, “but not murderin’ miffed. That’s a whole different category.”
“Well that’s a relief,” Ewing said, and strode back toward his restaurant.
“Nice guy,” said Teeny. “I hope he didn’t just jinx himself into getting murdered.”
Miss May nodded. “We all do.”
“Do you think there’s anyone in town who might want to hurt him?” Teeny took a sip of her milkshake.
“I think we should solve the actual murder of Adam Smith before we solve the hypothetical murder of Patrick Ewing,” I said.
Teeny rolled her eyes. “Fine. Although there’s not much left to solve. Charlie did it.”
Miss May took a bite of her burger. “You mean Master Skinner.”
Teeny scooted to the edge of her seat. “He had tons of motive. He’s taking over Adam’s role in the play. And he’s clearly excited about the opportunity. Plus, his fists and donkey legs are lethal.”
“Too bad we got ushered out before we could really talk to him,” I said.
“He was in a hurry for us to leave.” Miss May wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Much less calm and collected than usual. And relatively uncooperative.”
“Uncooperative is a generous word for what Master Skinner pulled in there.” Teeny grabbed the spoon and plunged it into her milkshake. “He was pretending to be an old Southern gentleman for the entire conversation.”
“That’s true,” I said, giggling at the memory. “Sorry. I know murder’s not funny. But my karate teacher doing a Southern accent just makes me laugh. Still, Master Skinner’s method acting is still pretty far from an admission of guilt. Master Skinner has always been eccentric.”
The three of us ate in silence for a few moments. I took a deep breath of the crisp spring air. Birds chirped in a tree above me. An old pickup truck rattled by on the road.
I shook my head. “But then again, I don’t think we can rule Master Skinner out as a suspect. Germany can’t verify that Skinner was backstage at the time of the shooting. Plus, there are no southern gentleman in the Phantom of the Opera. Maybe the sensei lost his mind.”
Miss May nodded. “Sure, that’s possible. But we need to talk to someone other than Skinner if we want any information.”
Teeny sat up. “Petunia was working the door at the theater last night, right?”
Miss May nodded. “Good idea. Let’s talk to Petunia. Maybe she saw Master Skinner.”
I ate my last fry. “I hope she did. For better or worse.”
13
Kiss My Petunias
The Washington Villages retirement community was unlike anywhere else in Pine Grove. It was built in the early 2000s, so it lacked the historical character and architecture compared to many of the buildings in our small town. I wouldn’t say the construction was cheap, but from a design perspective it was homogenous and lacked any sense of respect for its surroundings.
The buildings were all identical, with white vinyl siding and perfect little squares of grass in front of each one — like a computer-simulated world created by a very unimaginative mind.
Bland architecture aside, there was a lot of activity at Washington Villages. Tennis courts occupied the center of the complex. A big clubhouse near the entrance advertised BINGO and other entertainment. On any given day, the place was teeming with Pine Grove’s hottest, sexiest residents aged 55 and over. Shirtless men in their 70’s pumped iron, bikini-clad octogenarians sunned poolside, and of course, Petunia ran her infamous poker games every night from 10 PM until dawn.
That day, we entered the back room to find Petunia in the middle of an intense game of Texas Hold ‘Em. I wasn’t sure if she was starting early or ending late, but either way, she looked like she’d been in the exact same position for at least twenty-four hours.
Petunia sat at a felt table with six other elderly women. A green visor perched on her curly hair. She chomped on the end of a number two pencil like it was a Cuban cigar. Petunia was a small woman with a big personality. She ran her card games like a Vegas hustler, and seeing her in her element was a dark thrill — like seeing a velociraptor on the hunt.
“It’s on you, Ethel. You want to raise me?” Petunia growled. “I’ve got position on you. Not a smart move. If you double my bet, I’m pushing all in. For better or for worse. So I hope you’re ready to blow your whole stack.”
Petunia glared across the table at Ethel, her good friend and poker enemy. Ethel was a little hard of hearing and a lot bad at poker, so she was the perfect patsy for Petunia’s card shark skills.
Ethel cupped her hand to her ear. “What?”
“I said if you raise me, I’m going all in.” Petunia shook her head. “It’s on you.”
Another woman at the table picked up a novel and began to read quietly to herself. Clearly, she was used to a slow pace of play.
“Come on. Somebody’s gonna fall asleep or kick the bucket if you don’t make a move soon! Place your bet or…” Petunia took the pencil out of her mouth. “…or you can’t play for a week.”
Ethel laid her hand down on the table. “I fold. I have to go to the bathroom.” Ethel pushed her chair back and hobbled out of the room. Petunia glanced over her shoulder and noticed me, Teeny, and Miss May. “Oh great. It’s Pine Grove’s most unlikely trio of detectives. I know you took my sign-in sheet.”
Petunia’s ability to read people at the card table clearly carried over into real life. I smiled. “None of us know anything about any sign-in sheet.”
Petunia collected the chips from the middle of the table and began to deal a new hand. “It’s fine. I just worked there. If you girls think you need it for evidence, whatever. But it’s not like I’m a diligent bookkeeper at that theater. T
hey don’t pay me enough.”
A little old lady spoke up from across the poker table. “You volunteer.”
“They give me free tickets and unlimited Raisinets, OK? Mind your own business. You want me to kick you out of the game?”
The little old lady cowered. “Apologies. Don’t kick me out. I love my cards. I love my puzzles and I love my cards.”
Petunia shook her head. “No one is talking about puzzles. You know what? Let’s take five, ladies. I’ll deal with these silly detectives and I’ll be right back.”
Petunia strutted across the room and got a drink from the water fountain. She wiped her mouth as she turned back to us. “You want to find out if I saw something suspicious in the theater that night? Of course I did. Every actor in that play hated one another. And Master Skinner has come unhinged.”
Teeny leaned in. “So you’ve met Charlie?”
Petunia scoffed. “Everyone in town has met Charlie. You just met Charlie? I thought you three knew everything.”
Miss May shrugged. “It seems we know less than we think. That’s why we need to talk to you. You’re one of our most reliable sources.”
Petunia nodded. “I have incredible skills of observation. I was almost a fighter pilot.”
I cocked my head in skepticism but before I could question Petunia’s claim, Miss May piped up. “That doesn’t surprise me one bit. Look at you now. You’re a wizard at the poker table. A regular card counting genius.”
Petunia shook her head. “Card counting is blackjack. I play poker. The game is Texas Hold ‘Em. No limit. Pure aggression. Pure people-reading. My job at the table is to pick out the weakest woman and take her for all she’s worth.”
I hung my head. “Poor Ethel.”
“No. Not poor Ethel,” Petunia said. “She chooses to come back to the tables. It’s better her money goes to me that some snot-nosed brat who’s going to waste his inheritance.”
“Right,” I said. “I think you mentioned snot-nosed kids at the theater.”
Miss May loudly ahemed. “We’re getting off topic. I have more questions for you. Do you think that Master Skinner is a real suspect? Did you see him go upstairs? Do you think he was in the mezzanine?”
Petunia laughed. “Master Skinner didn’t shoot Adam Smith.”
Miss May looked around then looked back at Petunia. “Who did?”
Teeny stepped forward. “Was it Dorothy? When Adam kissed Zambia onstage… Dorothy looked angry enough to kill. And I don’t blame her.”
Petunia shook her head. “Forget Dorothy. She’s a lamb. A cute little jealous lamb. Defenseless. In fact, I should recruit her to play in my poker game. You need to talk to Zambia.”
Miss May rubbed her chin. “Why? She was the one kissing Adam. It seems like that’s what she wanted.”
“Zambia wanted Dorothy to leave Adam. She was tired of sharing the man with his wife. But Adam kept making promises and… Well, he was still married.”
Miss May’s eyes widened. “That is hot gossip, Petunia.”
Petunia smiled, proud. “I told you. I know everything. Yeah, sure. Master Skinner went up to the mezzanine. But this Zambia motive makes way more sense.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Wait, what?”
Petunia nodded. “Yeah, you heard me right. Skinner went up to the mezzanine. But I just don’t think it was him. Like I said, Dorothy, Zambia, and Adam had a fiery love triangle and I’d bet my last three nights’ winnings that one of those women murdered him.”
Miss May sighed. “Nonetheless. Why did Skinner go up to the mezzanine? We need to go back and have a word with Charlie.”
A frail, female voice rang out from behind us. “No you don’t.” We turned to see the little old lady Petunia had scolded at the card table. She’d clearly been eavesdropping. “I know where Skinner was last night. Follow me and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
14
Paint By Murders
We followed the old woman about two hundred feet to her apartment. The short walk took about fifteen minutes, and I kept feeling the urge to just pick the little lady up and carry her the rest of the way. The little woman entered her apartment and flicked on the lights. I looked around. To my right was a large dining room table. The dining room bled into a small TV room with a couch and armchair. A sliding glass door looked out to a pond. The walls were decorated with decades of family photos.
The little old woman sat at the dining room table and gestured for the three of us to sit across from her.
“Hello,” she said. “My name is Wendy Johnson. And what I’m about to tell you can never leave this room.”
Miss May sat. Teeny and I took the seats on either side of her. It was a tight fit on the small couch, but we were comfortable enough with each other to overlap a little.
Miss May gave Wendy a solemn nod. “Of course. You have our word. Right ladies?”
“Yep,” I said.
“Word,” Teeny said.
“You’re surprised we’ve never met,” said Wendy, focusing on Miss May.
Miss May nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose I am. Pine Grove is a small place.”
Teeny leaned forward. “And the three of us get around. You know, in the non-sexy sense.”
Wendy nodded. “I’ve been living here in Washington Villages for many, many years. I’m older than I look.”
I bit my tongue. The lady looked ancient. She must have been a hundred and thirty.
“You look pretty old,” said Teeny. She smiled. “We all do, except for Chelsea. We’re always complaining about her youth.”
Wendy tilted her head back and let out a slow, rumbling laugh. It had the same steady determination that I heard in her speaking voice. “If you’re not jealous of young people you must not be alive. That’s what I always say.”
“I’m sure even the dead are jealous of the young,” Teeny said. I cast a sideways look at her. Sometimes, Teeny said some profound things — often unintentionally.
Miss May put her elbows on her knees. “What is it you want to tell us, Wendy? Why’d you bring us to your lovely home?”
Wendy sat back. “My son was William Johnson. He passed almost ten years ago.”
Teeny’s jaw dropped. “Oh. And he left his wife behind, did he?”
Wendy nodded. “Daisy Johnson. Wonderful woman. But very private.”
I looked over at Teeny and Miss May, trying to piece things together. Earlier that day, Miss May and Teeny had mentioned something about Master Skinner taking up with the Johnson widow. It seemed that widow was named Daisy Johnson. Wendy was her mother-in-law. Wendy claimed to have information pertaining to Master Skinner’s whereabouts on the night of the murder. So I assumed she was about to tell us that Daisy and Master Skinner were indeed an item. I was wrong.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Wendy. “But you’re wrong. The rumor mill chews up Pine Grove’s most wholesome citizens and grinds them into tasty lies. Daisy hasn’t been with a man since William passed. She’s devoted her life to watercolor painting, in fact. She’s found a lot of solace in her art.”
Miss May narrowed her eyes. “I’m sorry. If there was no, uh, intimacy… I’m struggling to see the connection between Master Skinner and your daughter-in-law, the watercolor painter.”
Wendy sighed. “Daisy and Master Skinner did have something of a relationship. And they were together last night. But their liaisons are purely professional.”
Teeny leaned forward so far it looked like she was about to topple into a new plane of existence. “Tell us, Wendy. What are you talking about?”
Wendy hesitated. “You promised to never share this information with anyone.”
Miss May nodded. “Absolutely. Whatever you’re about to tell us will remain a secret forever.”
Wendy took a deep breath. “OK. Master Skinner is Daisy’s model.”
Teeny laughed in disbelief. “What? Are you telling me that she paints him?”
Wendy nodded. “There’s something about him s
he finds incredibly inspiring. He’s her muse. His icy-cold glare. His powerful, karate body… It inspires her.”
Miss May blinked three times, with slow deliberation. “Are you telling me… Master Skinner is a nude model for the Johnson widow?”
Wendy gasped. “No. Not naked. He wears all his clothes. Sometimes his shorts are a bit shorter than what I find appropriate, at least that’s what I think based on her portraits.”
Teeny scrunched up her face. “If he’s got his shirt and his short-shorts on, then why are these Skinner sessions such a secret?”
Wendy turned up her nose. “Because if anyone knew all the hours that Master Skinner spent at Daisy’s home, people would talk. They wouldn’t stop talking.”
I shook my head. “Hold on a second. Master Skinner left in the middle of the play last night so Daisy Johnson could paint him?”
Wendy shrugged. “That’s right. The man loves being a subject. He loves how much concentration it takes to stay still. Says it’s meditative. Daisy had been asking him to pose for a new portrait for months. But he’d had to turn her down, over and over, to go to rehearsal. The night of the premier, Skinner was so frustrated, so angry at that ridiculous director and star… He left the theater and went straight to Daisy. Asked her to paint ‘his angry face.’ Wanted his emotion to be artistically useful in one way or another, I guess.”
Miss May shook her head. “That is unbelievable. But I believe you.”
Teeny sighed. “But if Skinner didn’t kill Adam Smith, who did?”
“I agree with Petunia,” said Wendy. “You need to talk to Zambia. And you need to do it sooner rather than later.”
15
On Greenish Pond
Miss May, Teeny, and I left Washington Villages and headed over to Zambia’s house. Zambia lived near Hastings Pond in the community that was originally designed as a summer getaway for New York City residents in the 50’s. Our investigations had often brought us to Hastings Ponds — to visit local architect Sudeer Patel, or local hairstylist-turned-yogi Jennifer Paul, or really any local residents who were also murder suspects.
Shot Through the Tart Page 6
