Mark took Amy Jo’s hand. Sniffles filled the room, and my heart squeezed in sympathy. To grieve without understanding who caused the loss and why had to be unbearable. I thought about losing my mother and how that had made me feel. Great. Now I was starting to sniffle.
Taking a deep breath, Amy continued, “Besty Moore came by earlier. She said Julie Johnson hired you to look into the thefts.”
“Actually,” I said, relieved to focus on anything that wasn’t going to make me cry, “that’s part of the reason I dropped by. I was hoping you could answer a couple of questions, but those can wait until after…” After what I wasn’t quite sure.
I started to stand, and Amy Jo waved me back into my seat with a sad smile. “Please stay. It took Betsy months to sleep through the night after the break-in. Mark and I are happy to answer whatever questions you have. Especially now that we understand what it’s like to have someone take something precious from us.”
From across the room, Kristen looked at me with glistening eyes. I had two choices. I could flee out the door and feel like a schmuck or sit back down while pretending I wasn’t about to cry.
The chair won.
Mark raked a hand through his unkempt hair and shifted in his seat. “What Amy Jo is trying to say is that our family wants the person who ended Aunt Ginny’s life brought to justice.”
“The sheriff and Deputy Holmes are working to make sure that happens.” Technically, the sheriff was off catching a turkey or raking leaves, but that was probably more useful than having him get in Sean’s way. The sheriff was better at making reassuring statements, directing his staff, and shaking hands than at tracking criminals. As far as I was concerned, it was best to have him play to his strengths.
“We know the sheriff’s department will work hard,” a dark-haired woman seated next to Kristen said, “but we don’t feel confident in their ability to handle a murder investigation without outside assistance. That’s where you come in.”
What? Wait. No. “I don’t think—”
Without waiting for me to figure out what I thought, Mark said, “We know you’ve agreed to dedicate your time to helping solve the thefts. We don’t want to interfere with that, but we were hoping you might also be able to look into Aunt Ginny’s death.”
“But…”
“We can pay you.” This from a tiny woman with sharp features and steel-gray hair. “I’m willing to pay whatever it takes to see to it that my sister rests in peace.” She swiped away a tear with a tissue. Lifting her chin, she added, “Please.”
Gulp.
“It’s not about money.” I swallowed hard, and my heart hammered. All eyes looked at me with sorrow and hope. Hope that relied on me. Yikes. “I’m really not qualified.”
“You solved the last two murders,” Kristen said.
“But—”
“And the car theft ring,” Kristen’s mother added. “The sheriff’s department would never have arrested the criminals responsible for those crimes if it weren’t for you.”
“That’s not true.” I didn’t have a gun or handcuffs. Arresting people was not in my skill set.
Unfortunately, none of the faces looking at me seemed to believe that.
“Look,” I said, trying to ignore my grease-coated lunch rolling in my stomach. “I’m really not qualified to investigate a murder.” Hell, I wasn’t qualified to investigate anything more than who snagged the last pretzel out of the heating carousel. Only I couldn’t ignore the way Kristen’s lip trembled and Ginny’s sister’s shoulders slumped. “I’ll keep my ears open. If I hear anything I think will help catch Ginny’s killer, I’ll let Deputy Holmes know.”
Then he’d either ignore what I had to say or pitch me into the pink penitentiary from hell. While he might be willing to let me poke my overcurious nose into a ten-year-long string of robberies, I doubted he’d be so accommodating when it came to murder. Still, if it brought Ginny’s family a moment of peace, I would take whatever retribution Sean delivered.
Of course, that peace might be short-lived depending on what I learned from Amy Jo and Mark. The two walked me to the door after the family gave me a rundown on Ginny’s likes, dislikes, friends, and typical activities, along with a key to her apartment at the retirement home. There was probably some kind of law about me going into the apartment without the sheriff’s permission, but I figured I’d worry about that bridge when I jumped off it.
“Here’s a list of our phone numbers in case you have any questions or information.” Amy Jo handed me a piece of paper and gave me a small smile. “I realize you might not solve this case, but we feel better knowing someone we trust is working for Aunt Ginny.”
Amy Jo was talking about trust, and I was about to ask questions that could implicate her in a decade’s worth of crimes. Was I a nice person or what? Still, the questions had to be asked. Maybe I’d get lucky and Amy Jo and Mark would have information that would eliminate them from the suspect list. While that wouldn’t help me solve Julie Johnson’s case, I’d stop feeling like a traitor. Sometimes you had to take what you could get.
With that in mind, I changed the subject to the thefts. “Betsy mentioned that you and Mark helped feed the horses while she was away for Thanksgiving last year.”
“A bunch of us try to help out with livestock when one goes out of town. Last year we helped Betsy with her horses. The year before it was the Gullifers’ cows.”
My fingers itched to reach for my notebook. Instead, I mentally scrolled down the victim list. The Gullifers’ house had been robbed four years ago. Or maybe it was five. Whichever year it was, they were on the list, and Amy Jo and Mark not only knew them … they knew how to get into their house. At least they did as of two years ago. I needed to find out when they’d started the animal swap. Before I did that, though, there was something else I had to ask. Something I hoped would get them off the suspect list for good.
“When exactly did you move to Indian Falls?”
Amy Jo beamed at Mark. He beamed back and said, “Eleven years ago last month.”
Well, crap.
Zipping my coat, I promised to be in touch and then headed out into the cold, wishing I hadn’t come to visit Amy Jo and Mark. If I’d waited until tomorrow, Sean might have already found Ginny’s killer. I wouldn’t have seen the way these people were counting on me to help them. I wouldn’t feel like such a complete ass, knowing that my actions might deal them another blow.
Okay, technically, if Mark and Amy Jo were behind the thefts, my actions wouldn’t be the reason they ended up singing gospel songs in a pink room. Still …
Shivering, I hurried to my car. As I reached for the handle, I spotted a flash of fur and heard a distinctive purring sound. A moment later, Homer skittered from under a bush. Apparently, Betsy still wasn’t having luck keeping him inside.
Homer chattered, stood on his hind legs, and waved his hands. The friendly gesture made me smile. Since I didn’t speak raccoon, I made the assumption the little guy was hungry and dug a few french fries out of the bottom of the fast-food bag. Homer’s whiskers twitched as he took a fry and began to munch. When he was done with the fry, he purred and waved his paws again, and I handed him another. While he ate, I revised my thoughts on getting a pet raccoon. Couches were totally overrated, right?
Despite the cold, I waited until Homer polished off the remnants of my lunch before giving him a pat on the head and climbing into my car. Homer ambled up the porch to the front door while I waited for my heater to kick in. After several minutes, I saw the door open and Homer disappear inside.
Seeing the furry tail twitch before the door closed made me feel lighter. Less conflicted. The welcome Amy Jo gave Homer suggested he was a frequent visitor. Anyone who welcomed a pet raccoon into their house at the risk to their furnishings couldn’t be a criminal. Okay, that thinking would earn me an eye roll from anyone trained in investigative deductions, especially Deputy Sean. They’d say acceptance of a raccoon had no correlation with the guilt or innocenc
e of a suspect. I didn’t care. Homer thought Amy Jo and Mark were good people. I trusted his instincts. Now I had to prove both of us right.
The good news was that my new mission required me to do exactly what I was going to do anyway—find whoever had been robbing houses and bring them to justice. The bad news was it also required me to try to track down another murderer. The last two times I did that, I wound up with a gun pointed at my nose. I really wasn’t interested in repeating that experience. Getting shot would totally ruin my day.
Hoping I wouldn’t need to invest in a bulletproof vest, I motored down the street in search of a sign for the Gullifer Dairy Farm. Sadly, the Gullifers didn’t appear to believe in advertising. It took me forty-five minutes, three dropped calls to my grandfather, and a lot of colorful vocabulary before I pulled up to my destination.
The sound of mooing and the faint smell of cow manure accompanied me as I walked to a house that needed a new coat of white paint. Twenty minutes later, I was back in my car, armed with a list of jewelry, small electronics, and other valuables taken by the thief five years ago. I also learned that Amy Jo and Mark had been lending a hand with livestock for the past seven years. Drat. The upside was the Boggs duo had only been given a key to the milk room and the barn. Not to the house. Apparently, attaching machines to cow udders didn’t rate refrigerator privileges.
Steering back to town, I debated the next steps in my investigation. I still thought the motivation behind the first theft was the key to solving the case. With that in mind, I pulled my car into a driveway and dialed Amy Jo’s number.
When Mark answered, I apologized for interrupting and asked, “Do you and your wife know Mr. and Mrs. Kurtz?”
“Seth and Jan?” There was a smile in his voice. “Of course. They were at the welcome party Aunt Ginny threw for us a couple of weeks after Amy Jo and I moved to town. Aunt Ginny was worried we weren’t making enough friends, so she introduced us to hers. That’s the kind of woman she was. No matter how busy she was in her own life, Ginny always looked out for her family and friends. Although I’m sorry to say the party was a disappointment to her.”
“Why do you say that?”
Mark laughed. “The whole point of the party was to introduce us to people we could socialize with. While Aunt Ginny’s friends were nice, they…” He sighed. “Well, let’s just say Aunt Ginny was in her eighties and we’re … well … not.”
Fair point. “So you didn’t spend time with Seth and Jan after that day?”
“Not much. Ginny and Seth had some kind of argument, and she stopped inviting him to her parties. I guess they must have patched things up, though, because Ginny had me deliver chicken soup to the house last year when Jan came down with pneumonia. Until then I’d only heard stories, but the stories are true. Those dogs are scary.”
I agreed.
By the time I hung up, Mark and I had bonded over our fear of Indian Falls’ answers to the Hound of the Baskervilles. I had also learned that while Mark and Amy Jo met Mr. and Mrs. Kurtz soon after coming to town, Mark didn’t encounter their German shepherds until last year. If he and Amy Jo had broken into the Kurtz home, they would have come face-to-face with the dogs’ angst ten years ago.
Of course, knowing that I was looking into the thefts, Mark could have slipped the chicken-soup anecdote into the conversation to throw me off track. The perpetrator of the Thanksgiving Day thefts was smart and good at flying under the radar. If he wasn’t, Sean would have already thrown him behind bars. Still, I couldn’t get myself to believe Mark and Amy Jo were anything more than what they appeared to be—kind, good-hearted people who were grieving the loss of a beloved family member. A loss I had promised to investigate. Since I wasn’t sure what my next step in the Thanksgiving thefts case was, there was no time like the present to start.
Twelve
Ginny Chapman lived in a first-floor one-bedroom condo at the Indian Falls Retirement Community. When the building next door was converted from an unused high school into the gathering place for shuffleboard and Sinatra, the town’s older population held bake sales, craft fairs, and raffles. The proceeds raised were to be used to create an enclosed walkway that joined the two buildings. Pop and his contemporaries were better at eating their wares than selling them, so it took eight years and a check from an anonymous donor before the walkway was built. Since the center and the retirement community shared a parking lot, rarely did cars leave their parking spots. Who needed to drive when meals, workout classes, and entertainment were available without having to walk outside? Especially now, when the weather was so cold. It was no surprise that traffic accidents and parking tickets were down fifty percent during the winter months. I was also not shocked to discover that there was no place in the parking lot for me to park.
Since there was no avoiding a stroll in the cold, I parked at the roller rink and hoofed it the two blocks to the center. I then availed myself of the heated walkway to travel in comfort the rest of the way.
My nose was still cold when I reached the light-blue-carpeted lobby of the Indian Falls Retirement Community and heard the Canon in D blare out of my purse. Several pairs of eyes looked at me as I dug my phone out of the side compartment. So much for being inconspicuous.
HOW ABOUT BARS OF SOAP WITH THE DATE STAMPED ON THE FRONT?
Sighing, I typed back, YOUR GUESTS MIGHT THINK YOU ARE COMMENTING ON THEIR HYGIENE. Or that Danielle and Rich had raided the housekeeping carts at the local motels. DON’T WORRY. I’LL COME UP WITH SOMETHING.
At least I’d try, after I finished my current mission.
Sliding my phone back in my purse, I followed the posted signs to apartment 121. As far as I knew, there were only thirty condos in the three-story building, but I guess whoever created the numbering system was optimistic about the building’s chances of expansion.
Aside from the small gold letters on the door, Ginny’s apartment had no identifying markings. I considered the lack of police tape on the door a good sign. If Sean dropped by, he wouldn’t be able to prove I knew entry was a no-no.
A vaguely familiar man in ratty gray sweatpants and an oversized Elvis Arthur and Hermanos Mariachi sweatshirt came out of the apartment next to me. The few gray hairs on his head were long and stretched over the top of his head in an effort to camouflage the bald spot. He peered through his wire-rim glasses and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket as I slid the key in the lock. Unless I was mistaken, the Indian Falls gossip train was leaving the station. If I didn’t want to get flattened by the engine, I had to make this quick.
I closed the door behind me and squinted into the darkness. Someone, probably the cops, had closed the drapes in the living room. Being on the first floor meant a garden patio. It also meant neighbors could press their noses against the glass and get a glimpse inside.
Once I found the light switch, I looked around the immaculate kitchen and decided whoever closed the drapes didn’t need to bother. There wasn’t much in here to see. The white Formica countertops were free of crumbs. The black stove and microwave were devoid of fingerprints. Even the bright blue teakettle on the stove looked brand-new. Either the woman never cooked or her housekeeping skills rivaled Donna Reed’s.
I did a quick inventory of Ginny’s cupboards. Four plates, bowls, and saucers. Six plastic tumblers. Macaroni and cheese. Chocolate-chip-enhanced fiber oatmeal. Frosted Flakes. A year’s supply of chocolate pudding and Oreos. The fridge was more of the same. A Papa Dom’s pizza box. Two bottles of cranberry juice. A half gallon of milk with a seal that hadn’t been broken. Two tubs of ice cream, a box of corn dogs, and a bunch of frozen meals graced the freezer. Well, one thing was certain: Ginny wasn’t a health-food nut. She also didn’t stash scraps of paper or scribbled-on receipts in her kitchen drawers. In fact, she didn’t keep anything in here that wasn’t absolutely necessary. Impressive yet disappointing.
The living room was just as streamlined. The couch was pristine, most likely due to the plastic overlaying the bright green fabri
c. A small basket of perfectly rolled yarn in primary colors sat next to a dust-free rocking chair. A television and DVD player rested atop a small oak cabinet. From the perfectly shelved selection of films, I’d say Ginny liked movies where people got shot, blown up, or both.
In the bedroom, I found another television, a collection of black-and-white movies, and lots of photographs. Ginny with her family. Ginny getting a scarf from Elvis Pop. Ginny and her husband on their wedding day. Pictures of her in front of a beach resort. On a small footstool next to the bed was a partially packed suitcase. A black-and-white polka-dotted bathing suit sat on top. Ginny had started packing for this year’s escape from the snow.
Ignoring the slimy sensation rolling through my stomach, I pawed through her clothes, opened the night-table drawer, and poked around her jewelry box. Ginny’s clothes weren’t flashy. Her jewelry was minimal, and the dresser drawer was filled with a set of knitting needles, bits of yarn, and the most recent issue of TV Guide. I was about to close the drawer when I noticed the edge of a small book peeking out from under the magazine.
Ginny’s checkbook.
Since I now knew that Ginny preferred lace panties, I figured I’d already broken all moral boundaries. No point in stopping now.
A quick flip through her checkbook told me Ginny had a balance of two thousand sixty-three dollars and ninety-one cents. She’d paid her phone, electrical, and gas bills last week, as well as her condo association fee. I flipped back a page and noticed a check for nine thousand dollars written to Florence D. Hemmens dated two weeks ago. The day before the check was written, a deposit for that exact amount was made into the account.
Huh.
I flipped through the pages, which dated back to June of this year. Ginny appeared to be as good at balancing the books as she was at scrubbing the counters. Every month she logged a direct deposit from Social Security as well as the bills she paid. If I did the mental math correctly, Ginny spent the same amount of money every month. That amount was almost exactly covered by the check she received from the government. What she didn’t spend went toward the biannual property tax bill she faithfully paid and logged. Her property tax bill dropped her balance perilously close to zero, but the government deposit a week later remedied the matter.
Skating Under the Wire: A Mystery (Rebecca Robbins Mysteries) Page 13
