by JoAnna Carl
“You didn’t know about it? Sissy thought you and Buzz exchanged letters about it.”
“No! I didn’t know anything about Buzz writing a novel.”
I was incredulous. “But Sissy was sure…”
“No.” Chip’s denial was firm. “I didn’t know anything about a novel. I can’t imagine Buzz writing a book.”
Well, I could. Based on Chip’s own account of his personality, Buzz had been an introspective person who absorbed unhappy experiences. “He buried them inside, where they bother you the most,” Chip had said. It occurred to me that Chip might have a few things buried inside, too.
And when unhappy experiences are buried inside, the creative process is one way to get them out. I could see a counselor advising Buzz to write about the things that bothered him. Of course, I had no idea that Buzz had ever seen any sort of counselor, even though it sounded as if he needed one. But writing a novel might have been a therapeutic experience for him.
I was concentrating on this topic so hard that I was surprised when Joe spoke, asking Chip some innocuous question. When he had to return to duty, I think. Or maybe how often he got leave. I was so surprised by Chip’s flat denial that he knew anything about Buzz’s novel that I hardly listened.
We finished our lunch with ice cream bars. I was still quiet. My mind was racing, but Chip had stonewalled me completely by denying that he knew anything about Buzz’s novel.
Joe and I were on our way back to Warner Pier before I had any significant comment.
“He lied,” I said. “Chip lied about the novel.”
“Probably,” Joe said.
“Why?”
“Because he didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Duh! Why not?”
“Oh, I expect you could come up with some speculation on that point.”
I sighed. “I’d guess that whether or not Chip knows what’s in the novel, he thinks it’s too hot to handle. He doesn’t want anyone—for ‘anyone,’ read ‘Ace’—to find out he knows about the novel.”
“And Sissy says Buzz wouldn’t tell her anything about his book?”
“No. And he wouldn’t let either her or Wildflower read any of it.”
“And the manuscript disappeared?”
“That’s what Sissy told me. Of course, it wasn’t on paper. But there was no file with a novel on it in Buzz’s computer. And the thumb drives he used to back up his files were blank.”
“It sounds as if the person who shot Buzz raided his computer.”
“It sounds like it to me, too, but Sissy said the sheriff wasn’t convinced.”
“I think Ramsey got stuck on the idea that Sissy had a lover and wanted to get rid of Buzz. He didn’t really look at any other possibility.”
“What does Hogan think?”
“He’s not tipping his hand. Especially since Helen Ferguson was killed in his jurisdiction, not Ramsey’s.”
“And I guess he thinks the two killings are connected.”
“They’re both connected to Ace Smith. Maybe to Sissy.” We left it at that.
Joe didn’t fight the Warner Pier summer season traffic for a parking place. He just dropped me in front of TenHuis Chocolade, and I ran in the door.
As soon as I was inside, I heard a woman yelling.
“Because of you my mom is dead! I’ll see that you get what’s coming to you if it’s the last thing I do!”
Somebody was in the back room screaming. I ran through the retail shop and skidded to a stop in the workroom.
A young woman with brassy blond hair was standing in the door to Sissy’s office. And she was yelling.
“You can’t just go around killing people who get in your way! I’m going to see that you suffer for this!”
Chapter 18
Mom. The angry woman had used the word mom. And she was accusing Sissy of killing someone.
This must be Helen Ferguson’s daughter.
I had forgotten that Helen had a daughter, so her identity hadn’t slapped me in the eye. Now I remembered that Sissy had said Helen tried to promote her own daughter as a romantic partner for Buzz.
Maybe I’d learned a lesson by yelling at the sheriff. This time I vowed to keep my voice low and my temper cool.
The young woman was well inside Sissy’s door, so I managed to slip in and move around in front of her. From her viewpoint, I must have jumped up like a jack-in-the-box. She gasped and stopped talking.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Lee Woodyard. I’m business manager for TenHuis Chocolade. Please come around to my office.”
The woman pouted. “I was talking to Sissy. I don’t need to talk to you.”
“Perhaps not. But I need to have Sissy on the job. Personal matters will have to wait until she’s on her own time.”
“Oh.” The word had an offended edge.
“Everyone who comes into TenHuis receives a sample chocolate,” I said. “Just come with me, and I’ll get you one.”
Who can resist chocolate? She followed me into the shop. But she balked at selecting a chocolate.
“I guess I shouldn’t have come,” she said. “You don’t need to give me chocolate.” The words were polite, but the tone was whiny.
“As I said, we give every visitor a sample bonbon or truffle. Would you like a cappuccino truffle? They’re milk chocolate inside and out, with a creamy flavor that hints at coffee. Or how about something a bit more exotic? We have rosemary truffles. The interiors have a trace of rosemary in white chocolate ganache, and they’re covered in dark chocolate and embellished with dried rosemary.”
“No! I’d better get out of here. You’re all on Sissy’s side.”
As the old saying goes, I didn’t want her to go away mad. I just wanted her to go away. She headed for the door, and I followed, catching up with her on the sidewalk.
“I don’t know your name,” I said.
“Why should you? Nobody ever noticed me when Sissy was around. My name is Fran Park. It used to be Fran Ferguson.”
“Then you’re Helen Ferguson’s daughter. I’m terribly sorry about your mother.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “She wasn’t an easy person to get along with, but she was my mother.”
All I could do was nod. She’d just described my relationship with my own mother. Heaven knows we’ve had our problems, but she’s still my mom.
“It just seems so awful for her to be killed,” Fran said. “Then thrown down that stairway. Just left there!” She turned back toward our shop, and I thought she was going to shake a fist.
The situation wasn’t improving. I had thought it was a good thing to get Helen Ferguson’s daughter out of TenHuis Chocolade, but if she stood outside and made a scene, it was going to be worse. I needed to get her away from the public eye.
I tried to use a soothing voice. “Fran, let’s go down to the Sidewalk Café. They have a back room where we can get a cup of coffee.”
I almost expected Fran to storm off, but she again followed along. I was beginning to think she wanted someone to boss her a bit. Well, that was something I was good at, or so my friends were always telling me.
I herded Fran, who was still weeping, for half a block, until we reached the Sidewalk Café. Luckily, my close friend Lindy Herrera was managing the restaurant for her father-in-law, and she was on duty. When I came in with a weeping woman, she was happy to whisk us out of sight of the main dining room, tucking us into the back room usually reserved for private parties. She promised to bring us coffee and left us alone, closing the door behind herself.
Between sobs Fran continued to whine. “It’s just such a shock. The last time I talked to Mom, she was so happy.”
“I met your mother only once, but she struck me as an upbeat person.” Or she pretended to be. I didn’t say that aloud, of course.
“And she had just arranged a good business deal.”
“Oh? What sort of business?”
“She didn’t tell me. But she said they were close to an agreement, and
it would be a good deal for her. Then for that awful Sissy to kill her!”
“But what makes you think Sissy killed your mother?”
“She killed her husband, and my mom knew it.”
“But the authorities—”
“Oh, Sissy’s always gotten her own way! Ever since grade school. Everybody thought she was so cute, she couldn’t do anything wrong. But I was in her class for twelve years, and, believe me, she did plenty wrong! Then she killed Buzz! And now my mom. And she’ll get away with it! She must have that police chief wrapped right around her finger. Innocent for reasons of cuteness!”
“Okay! Okay!” I wanted to calm Fran down, not inflame her. “But as I understand it, the police think your mom was killed by one blow, probably from a stick or club. And they think she wasn’t killed at the beach, but somewhere else. Then she was carried to the beach and thrown down the steps. Do you think Sissy is strong enough to do that?”
A frown crossed Fran’s face. “If she were really angry, maybe.”
“Could you do it? I don’t think I could. And we’re each as strong as Sissy.”
“Sissy could have hit her.” Fran’s face brightened. “She could have used a stick. Or a jack handle. And she could have used a wheelbarrow to move her.”
“An adult is still pretty heavy. Did the police tell you they’d found evidence of a wheelbarrow being at the beach? Tracks, maybe?”
“No. They didn’t tell me anything.” She was still whining.
“Then maybe you’d better wait until you talk to them before you make up your mind. I know they questioned Sissy twice, because she found your mom, but they haven’t seemed interested in charging her.”
Fran sighed deeply. Her attitude seemed to have moved from grief to martyrdom. “It’s just that it would be so logical if Sissy killed my mom. Because my mom was the only one who could link Sissy to the Volkswagen.”
“The Volkswagen? The one Sissy drives?”
“Yes. The Volkswagen that was supposedly in the shop. The one that was seen out near Moose Lodge the day Buzz Smith was shot to death.”
My first impulse was to roll my eyes. There was that old story again—the one about someone, the indefinite someone, who saw Sissy’s Volkswagen driving toward Moose Lodge at the same time a dozen witnesses had said she was in Holland.
But out of respect for Fran’s grief, I simply dropped my eyes and tried to hide my reaction.
This didn’t please Fran. “I can see you think I’m lying. Well, I’m not!”
“I know a lot of people believe that story, Fran. But the detectives talked to the garage owner in Holland, and he swore Sissy’s VW was in the shop over the whole weekend.”
“Then he’s lying. Or he didn’t notice it was gone.”
“I’ve been told about the Volkswagen several times, but when you try to pin people down, the story always dissolves.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you can never find the person who actually saw the Volkswagen. It’s always a friend of a friend. Or someone’s cousin’s aunt’s next-door neighbor. Anyway, the tale can never be traced down to prove the truth of it.”
“But my mom did see the car.” Fran leaned forward and spoke eagerly. “It was right after Colonel Smith moved his stuff into his family place, see. He’d gone to Florida for a couple of weeks, and Mom was clearing up the house. She took a load of boxes out to the dump. And there was this Volkswagen on the road in front of her.”
“Was it Sissy’s Volkswagen?”
“I admit she didn’t see who was driving it. And she didn’t write down the license number. I mean, why should she? She just thought it was Sissy going home. She didn’t know Sissy was headed out there to kill her husband. But she saw a Volkswagen, and it was headed for Moose Lodge.”
“Did your mother tell the investigators about this?”
Fran sat back and folded her arms. “Colonel Smith didn’t want her to.”
“That’s hard to believe. He’s acted as if he thinks Sissy is guilty.”
“I can’t explain it. I only know that’s what my mother told me.”
“Have you told the authorities about it?”
Fran dropped her eyes, then looked at me from under her lashes. “No. I haven’t told them yet.”
“Why on earth not?”
The eyelashes fluttered. “Well, if Mom thought she should hold off because Colonel Smith asked her to…And I thought I ought to talk to him before I told. I mean, the story is bound to hurt Sissy. He might not like that.” Flutter, flutter went the lashes.
Then Fran looked directly at me and spoke. “For that matter, you might not like it. None of Sissy’s friends are likely to want the story told.”
Fran gave me a really innocent look. Was she trying to get me to give her some sort of payoff? Had her mom blackmailed Sissy? Was Fran trying to blackmail me?
For at least a full minute I considered what she’d said. Yes, I believed Sissy was innocent of her husband’s murder. I believed she was innocent of Helen Ferguson’s murder, for that matter. No, I didn’t want more talk around town about how Sissy could have killed either of them.
But I wasn’t hiding behind Wildflower’s couch when Buzz was shot. I wasn’t behind a bush at Beech Tree Beach when someone threw Helen Ferguson’s body down the stairs. I had no idea what happened to either of them.
I believed in Sissy, but I didn’t want to hide evidence.
Suddenly, I’d fooled around with Fran Ferguson Whatever-her-name-was long enough. I was tired of her.
Luckily, I had my cell phone in my pocket. I pulled it out and punched the button for the Warner Pier Police Department. Hogan’s secretary answered.
I stared Fran right in the eye as I spoke into the phone. “This is Lee Woodyard,” I said. “Please tell Hogan that I’m in the back room at the Sidewalk Café. Fran Ferguson is with me. She says her mother told her something that might be important. It’s about the day Buzz Smith was killed. I’d appreciate it if Hogan or some other officer would come right over here and let her tell them about it.”
Fran jumped to her feet. “I’m not talking to the cops!”
“She’s threatening to leave,” I told the cell phone calmly. I listened. Then I turned to Fran. “They said to tell you it would look very bad if you don’t stick around until someone comes to talk to you.”
I lied. Actually, Hogan’s secretary hadn’t said anything of the sort. She had merely said she’d try to have someone there quickly.
Fran might have fled the scene if it hadn’t been for Lindy. Fran headed for the door, but when she opened it, Lindy was standing there with two mugs and a carafe of coffee.
“Sorry it took me so long,” she said. “Hogan and Jerry Cherry came in, and I stopped to talk to them for a minute.”
I laughed. That’s the joy of living in a small town. Coincidences happen all the time. Actually, I should have remembered that Hogan always met with his night patrolman sometime in the middle of the afternoon, and they often came to the Sidewalk Café for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie while they talked.
So Fran was still standing there, probably trying to make up a story that would explain what she’d said to me, when Hogan and Jerry left their midafternoon snack and came into the room.
I immediately went back to my office.
I was torn emotionally. Fran had offered me the chance to shut her mouth, and that might have protected Sissy from further suspicion. But it wouldn’t have protected her in the long run. And if Sissy really had driven her old Volkswagen in the vicinity of Moose Lodge the day Buzz was killed, well, maybe it needed to come out.
When I got to my office, I threw myself into my chair, and almost immediately someone came in the door. It was Sissy, of course.
“Thanks for taking Fran away,” she said, “but if you’d waited another five minutes, I could have sued her for slander.”
“Oh, you can still sue her. I got her to a less public place, but she kept up the badmouthing.”
“I’m sorry you got stuck with her.”
I waved at my chair. “I guess we have to cut her some slack. She may not be a very nice person, but she did lose her mother tragically. I’m afraid you’re not going to like the way I handled it.”
I took a deep breath and repeated the story Fran had told, identifying her mother as the person who claimed to have seen the Volkswagen near Moose Lodge.
Sissy nodded. “Helen told me she had seen me out there. She seemed to think I would beg her not to tell. Maybe offer her money. I didn’t. I just told her I didn’t kill Buzz, and she should do whatever she thought was right.”
“I had wondered if Helen had tried to blackmail you. I thought Fran was close to asking for hush money.”
“I don’t have any money—hush or any other kind. All I did was urge Helen to go to the sheriff.”
“Did you report her threats to the sheriff yourself?”
“I should have. But by the time she approached me, Sheriff Ramsey and I weren’t speaking.”
“Did the investigators search your car?”
“I gave them permission to search it. Whether they did or not, I don’t know. I was in such a daze then…”
She stood up. “Guess I’ll try to do a little work. And a little is all I seem to get done around here. Sorry.”
I checked the time on my computer screen. So much had happened that afternoon that I felt as if it were quitting time, but it was only three o’clock. I tried to get to work, too.
Of course, I kept eyeing the front door. But Hogan didn’t come by to pick up Sissy.
In fact, the main thing that happened that afternoon was rain. About four thirty, it began to pour. There’s nothing unexpected about that, of course. Michigan gets rain, even in July. That’s okay with us merchants, because when the tourists can’t go to the beach, they hit Warner Pier’s quaint downtown, looking for clothes, food, and souvenirs.
The only problem with rain is that at five o’clock, when the ladies who make our chocolate and the two of us who handle the money—Sissy and I—leave, we have to do so in the rain. And that day had started out sunny and beautiful, so no one had brought a raincoat or umbrella. Plus, most workers in downtown businesses park in that special lot several blocks away where they can use a reserved section. So the downpour caused cries of consternation from people who thought they were going to have to walk several blocks in a driving rain with no rain gear.
