“What are you going to do to her?”
“I don’t know yet,” Claire said. “I need to think about it some more.”
“Stay classy,” Maggie said. “Remember to use your finesse.”
“Don’t worry,” Claire said. “I’m going to finesse the hell out of that pop tart.”
“Top suspects,” Maggie said. “Claire, go.”
“I think Jillian must have killed Gigi,” Claire said. “She had to be the person Gigi was meeting with that morning, to talk about Chip and the will.”
“You’re not getting a penny of my money!” Hannah imitated Gigi’s voice. “What then? Jillian runs out and gets a prescription for penicillin filled and puts it in her tea? Nope. That would take too long. This was premeditated.”
“So, maybe the meeting happened a few days before, and this was the follow up,” Maggie said. “Jillian’s come to beg for another chance, hoping the will hasn’t been changed yet. She brings the penicillin in case things don’t go her way.”
“Okay, how does she get the penicillin into Gigi?” Claire asked.
“Her coffee,” Hannah says. “The food. Anything she ate or drank.”
“Or rubbed on her skin,” Maggie said. “Lotion, maybe?”
“Oh my goodness, I know how she did it,” Claire said. “It was the perfume! I watched Gigi put it on.”
“That would do it,” Maggie said. “We need to tell Scott to get the perfume tested.”
“Okay, what about Cheat?” Claire asked.
“Amber did that, fo sho,” Hannah said. “I saw her leaving the house, she admitted he owed her money, and she took off like a bat out of hell.”
“I think there’s even more to the story there,” Maggie said. “Maybe Amber was in cahoots with Cheat. He told her, ‘My son has all this money coming to him and you’re young and promiscuous, do the math.’ And then he demands a cut or he’ll tell Chip what Amber did.”
“I believe it all except the last bit. Chip wouldn’t believe anything Cheat said.”
“Maybe he had photos,” Hannah said.
“Ew,” Claire said.
“So, Amber killed Cheat for money and to keep him quiet,” Maggie said.
“Or just for kicks,” Claire said.
“How do we prove it?” Maggie asked.
They were silent, seemingly stumped.
“She’s not likely to get drunk and brag about it,” Claire said. “She’s too tough and smart for that.”
“We can’t force her to confess,” Hannah said. “Can we?”
“What would threaten her?” Maggie asked. “What’s she afraid of?”
“Being out of control,” Claire said. “Being made a fool.”
“Can you arrange that?” Hannah asked.
“I’ll do my best,” Claire said.
Chapter Seven
The next morning Maggie came out to Hannah’s for breakfast. She had promised Maggie bacon, eggs, and pancakes, but when Maggie got there, there was nothing cooking.
“Where’s my breakfast?” Maggie asked.
“Sorry,” Hannah said. “My cupboard is bare. I have instant oatmeal or toast.”
“Never mind,” Maggie said. “We’ll just go down to the bakery later. I’ve texted Claire several times but she hasn’t answered yet.”
“What in the hell is wrong with her?” Hannah asked. “I invited her to go with us to the Kelly Clarkson & Pink show in Pittsburgh next weekend and she passed.”
“Leave her be,” Maggie said. “She’s going through something.”
“I knew you knew something,” Hannah said. “What is it? Did she break a nail? Did a celebrity couple break up? How will she cope?”
“She’s in a dark pit of recrimination and regret.”
“What are you talking about?” Hannah asked. “She’s been kinda spacy but not suicidal.”
“She’s seriously depressed,” Maggie said. “She can’t sleep at night for thinking about every mistake she ever made and every humiliating thing that ever happened to her. That’s what depressed people do. They go over and over all the ways they think they’ve failed, like an endless loop of self-torture.”
“That sounds horrible,” Hannah said. “I knew something was up, but not anything that bad.”
“She only told me because I heard her sobbing in the bookstore bathroom,” Maggie said.
“Well, we gotta fix this,” Hannah said. “What do we do?”
“We can’t fix it, only Claire can,” Maggie said. “I told her she needs to get some help, but I can tell she thinks it’s just something she’s going through and it will pass.”
“What do you think brought it on?”
“She was more involved with Laurie than we knew.”
“What?” Hannah said. “Laurie Purcell? I didn’t even know she knew who he was. The scanner grannies didn’t know about this, how is that possible?”
“Evidently they met in the Thorn while we were at the beach and got close just before he died.”
“Does Ed know about this?”
Maggie shrugged.
“Laurie Purcell,” Hannah said. “I had no idea. Poor bastard. Blown up by a mobile meth lab. I wouldn’t be a policeman if you paid me a million dollars. I’d much rather be a nosy parker.”
“I think maybe hospice isn’t the best place for her to volunteer right now, feeling like she does, but she says she needs to keep busy. It’s the only thing that helps.”
“Oh, crap,” Hannah said. “I was giving her a hard time the other day for sleeping all the time now that she’s unemployed. I thought she was being lazy. I didn’t know she was sad.”
“It’s more than sad,” Maggie said.
“We gotta do something.”
“Her fortieth birthday is this weekend,” Maggie said.
“I guess I better not make it a cemetery theme.”
“And no walkers and canes.”
“We’ll make it fun,” Hannah said. “That will cheer her up.”
“Better keep it low key,” Maggie said. “Just family and friends.”
“But not my mom,” Hannah said. “Alice is not someone you want around if you’re feeling fragile.”
“Tell Alice there will be loud music,” Maggie said. “She hates that.”
“I’ll tell her there will be loud bluegrass music,” Hannah said. “She’ll leave town.”
“What’s your plan today?”
“I’m taking Eugene to three doctor appointments,” Hannah said, and then ticked them off her fingers. “Allergy doctor at ten, MRI at one, and then Dr. Schweitzer at three.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He still has a headache,” Hannah said. “It’s probably just a side effect of his medication and they can adjust the dose.”
“You should invite that cute shrink to Claire’s party,” Maggie said.
“Like an intervention?”
“Heavens no,” Maggie said. “But if you let him know what’s going on and he just happens to talk to her …”
“I’m on it,” Hannah said. “Maybe he can examine my husband’s head while he’s at it.”
“Has that girl called again?”
“Not since the last time I told you about,” Hannah said. “He’s just such a prick sometimes.”
“He was like that when you married him.”
“You’re right,” Hannah said. “I know he loves us, but we don’t ever feel like a family; at least not what I thought a family would feel like. It’s more like we’re two single parents raising one child. That doesn’t make any sense, I know. Don’t pay any attention to me. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Sam’s been closed off since he came back from overseas.”
“It’s PTSD,” Hannah said, “and it’s not going to go away. I know that.”
“I think it would be hard for anyone to be married to Sam.”
“If he weren’t so damn handsome,” Hannah said. “And he’s not mean to us. I know he would lay down his lif
e for us.”
“That’s true.”
“Ahhhh, forget about it,” Hannah said. “He’s a good-enough husband and I could have done much worse.”
“That’s the spirit!”
“Shut up. What’s your plan today?”
“I’m going to talk to the caterer who was at Gigi’s house the day she died,” Maggie said. “I want to find out if anybody saw or overheard anything useful.”
“You guys should come out this evening; we’ll barbecue something.”
“Sorry,” Maggie said. “My husband has requested a date night, whatever the hell that is.”
“I think you should have married Sam and I should have married Scott,” Hannah said. “I’d love to go on a date night.”
“I love Sam,” Maggie said. “But one of us would kill the other one before a week was out. Two cranky people cannot live together.”
“Tell Scott if he needs a sub for date night I’m in,” Hannah said. “Sam won’t care. He’ll be relieved.”
“I’ll tell him.”
The catering company was located in a metal building on the highway frontage road near the motel where Chip and Amber met. There was a small sign on the door that read, “Johansen Event Company.”
“Hello,” Maggie called out as she went inside.
Stacks of chairs and tables filled the cavernous central room, with only a narrow passageway between them. Overhead, what looked like huge rolled up tents were hoisted up just below the steel ceiling joists.
Maggie could hear voices coming from a back room, where the delicious smell of frying onions was emanating. Maggie walked to the doorway and listened.
“I really wish you’d given me more notice,” a woman said.
“Sorry,” another woman said. “But I’m making way more money over there, and I need to focus on building my own business.”
“You know how I feel about it. You’re smart and a hard worker, and in a few years you could be a partner in this business.”
“But I don’t want to do this. It’s too much work for the money.”
“Well, if you ever want to come back, I’ll make a place for you.”
“Thanks, Ing. See you around.”
Maggie pushed the door just as a young woman was pushing the other side of it.
“Sorry,” Maggie said, but the young woman just scowled at her and pushed by.
“Nice manners,” Maggie said to her retreating back.
The young woman held up her middle finger but did not turn around.
Maggie felt her whole body flush with rage, but she took a deep breath and shook her hands out.
‘Let it go,’ she told herself. ‘A snotty little twerp is not worth it.’
After a few deep breaths, still hot but somewhat calmer, she entered what turned out to be a large professional kitchen, where a woman sat on a high stool at a stainless steel island, looking over a huge calendar with something scribbled on each day. She looked over her half-moon reading glasses at Maggie.
“May I help you?” she asked as she stood up.
The tall, statuesque woman had a great mass of blonde curly hair twisted up on the back of her head, with tendrils escaping just as Maggie’s wild red hair was known to do. She wore a chef’s smock, black leggings, and bright red clogs.
“I’m looking for the owner,” Maggie said, and introduced herself.
“Ingrid Johanson,” she said as she gripped Maggie’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “I’m the owner. You aren’t related to the Fitzpatrick Bakery family in Rose Hill, are you?”
“That’s us,” Maggie said. “I started working there before I could talk, so they say.”
“Any chance you’d share some of your family recipes?”
“Not if I value my life,” Maggie said.
“It was worth a try,” Ingrid said. “Your cinnamon rolls are amazing. I’ve tried to duplicate the taste but I can’t. I’m usually pretty good at identifying the smallest ingredient. There’s something in those rolls that tastes wonderful, but I can’t tell what it is.”
“Ah, yes,” Maggie said. “They’re very popular.”
“The croissants are the best I’ve ever eaten,” Ingrid said. “I stole your lemon blueberry muffin idea and everyone loves them, but they’re still not as good as yours.”
“I hear you’re very good,” Maggie said, “and from the looks of that calendar, very busy.”
“I’ve finally been discovered, after only ten years of doing this,” Ingrid said. “Now I’m so busy I can’t remember the last day off I had. But the money’s so good I can’t say no.”
“I love hearing a small business success story,” Maggie said. “I own Little Bear Books in Rose Hill.”
“Your cookbook section is killer,” Ingrid said.
“That’s due to Jeanette, my manager,” Maggie said. “She reads cookbooks like I read fiction.”
“Me, too,” Ingrid said, and gestured to a glass-fronted bookcase filled with cookbooks.
She went to the stove and used a long metal spoon to stir a mass of onions cooking in the largest sauté pan Maggie had ever seen. She poured some water on them and it sizzled as she stirred.
“I’m caramelizing onions,” she said. “It’s a lengthy process, but I find if I add some water occasionally and then cook them until it evaporates, they benefit from the extra time. Not my idea, by the way, just something I read and tried.”
“I don’t cook,” Maggie said. “But I love to eat. That smells amazing.”
“I’m flattered you’d hire me to cater something,” she said, “considering what your family does.”
Maggie couldn’t fault Ingrid for making that assumption, and since things were going so well, she decided to play along.
“My cousin’s fortieth birthday is on Saturday,” she said. “She’s having a hard time right now and I want to give her a nice party, nothing huge and noisy, but fun and cheerful.”
“Where will the event be held?”
Ingrid grabbed a legal pad and took down Hannah’s address.
“I know that farm,” Ingrid said. “What a great venue for an event. Tell me about your cousin. What’s her name?”
“Claire Fitzpatrick,” Maggie said. “Her dad was chief of police for a long time, and her parents own the Rose and Thorn. Claire left Rose Hill right after high school and just recently moved back. She worked for a famous actress for twenty years, so she’s traveled all over the world, and eaten at five-star restaurants. She’s pretty; a girly girl, you know what I mean? High heels, ginormous designer purses, and lots of make-up; but she’s not shallow or snobby. She’s actually one of the nicest people I know.”
“What does she like to eat?”
“I don’t really know,” Maggie said.
“You two aren’t close?”
“I’d say we are,” Maggie said. “She just doesn’t eat very much.”
“Big salads, hold the dressing, that kind of thing?”
“Oh, yes,” Maggie said. “Not like me.”
“Or me,” Ingrid said. “To me a salad’s not worth eating unless it’s covered in cheese, meat, bacon, and way too much chunky blue cheese dressing.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“Stick around and I’ll feed you lunch,” Ingrid said. “You can preview what I do.”
“I’m not even sure I can afford you,” Maggie said. “Maybe we better talk price.”
They discussed how many people and what kind of event it would be.
“What are her hobbies?” Ingrid asked. “What does she like?”
“Claire loves old movies,” Maggie said, “and bluegrass music.”
“Great!” Ingrid said. “I did this great kid’s party once where I put up a white sheet on the side of the house and we projected old cartoons on it. The parents loved it even more than the kids. What’s her favorite old movie?”
“That’s easy,” Maggie said. “Anything with Cary Grant in it.”
“Super!” Ingrid said. “I see
a bluegrass trio playing until dark, and then we’ll show His Girl Friday or Bringing Up Baby on the side of the barn. I picture hay bales covered in old quilts for seating, barbecue sliders, a crab, shrimp, new potato, and corn boil, lemonade for the kids, small-batch-brewed beer and champagne punch for the grownups, miniature cupcakes and fruit tarts.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“I’ll give you a professional discount,” Ingrid said.
She punched some numbers into her calculator and named a figure per person that made Maggie’s eyes water.
“Maybe not champagne,” Maggie said. “And just crab or shrimp, but not both.”
“Okay,” Ingrid said, and punched some more numbers. “How about this?”
She showed Maggie a much more reasonable number.
“Perfect,” Maggie said. “I can’t believe you’re even available that night.”
“I’ve got two other events,” Ingrid said with a smile. “I’m good at multi-tasking and I have a great crew.”
“The one that just left wasn’t so friendly.”
“Amber,” Ingrid said with a sigh. “She’s had a hard life.”
“Amber, who works at the strip club, Amber?” Maggie asked. “I only know that from gossip I’ve heard, sorry.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Ingrid said. “She started working for me a couple years ago, said she was sixteen but I knew she was younger. She ran away from home. I guess her mother and she couldn’t get along. I’ve met the mother, she seems kind of flaky, but I don’t know what really happened. Amber was living in a tent in the state park. I let her move the tent to my back yard, and I put her to work. Terrible manners, and horrible with people, but there was just something about her. She was like a suspicious, abused stray, and I couldn’t turn my back on her. I offered for her to live in my house but she refused. She used to steal food from my kitchen and sneak in when I wasn’t home to use the bathroom and shower. I would have given her the run of the house, but she seemed to prefer sneaking.”
“Why stripping?”
“She was cleaning rental houses for some dirty old man in Rose Hill. He told her how much money she could make stripping, and offered to buy her the clothes and make-up she would need if she gave him a cut of her tips. I’d like to kill that man.”
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