by Dee Ernst
I nodded sympathetically. “Yes. But surely her murder was tied to finding Walt Malleck, don’t you think?”
Mary’s face got dark. “Walt Malleck was an evil man and a terrible drunk. Whoever killed him did the world a service.”
“True, Mary Rose, but still. It was murder. Someone must have gotten pretty anxious when Emma started digging around.”
Mary Rose shuddered. “Yes. That koi pond. It would have been so beautiful. Emma’s garden is ruined now, have you seen it? I have no idea how she’ll ever bring it back.”
“She said someone had been getting in,” I said, watching her face.
She frowned in concentration. “Yes. She told me that.”
“Have you heard any ideas about who might have been responsible?”
“No,” she said shortly.
“Has anyone said anything about being up at the clubhouse? I can’t believe nobody saw anything.”
Her face relaxed. “I know. It’s very strange. On Saturday morning, everyone was getting ready for the parade. Nobody was paying attention to who was going where. And if anyone had been up there, it was probably a committee person, checking up on things, so nobody would have given it a second thought.” She leaned forward. “People are funny, Ellie. They see what they want to see. A man could have been walking around carrying a machine gun, and folks would have looked and thought, gee, that guy must be in the parade, and just gone on their way. Or they don’t see at all. The expected is always invisible.”
“You’re right, Mary Rose, “ I said slowly. I looked down at the trophy in my hand. “You’re right. Thank you. You’ve given me lots to think about.”
“Oh?”
I smiled. “Yes. Let me go. Thanks again.”
I went out and started up the hill. The expected was invisible. She was right. Nobody noticed the UPS guy, or the JCP&L truck. The school bus was never seen. On Saturday, it would have been expected that people would be running around, and in places they wouldn’t normally be. Nobody would have paid attention to who was at the clubhouse because everyone knew that, at some point during the day, somebody would be there.
Well…poop.
Clearly, I’d have to start looking at this from another angle.
I turned the corner and started into the post office. I usually didn’t bother getting my mail every day, but I was right there, and Joan Dudley, postmistress and gossipmonger extraordinaire, was out front watering the flower boxes that hung in the post office windows.
“Morning Joanie, how are you?”
She turned, scowling. Joan was not a terribly happy person. She constantly complained about how unappreciated, overworked, and generally abused by post office patrons in general she was. What kept her going, Shelly once joked, was the constant influx on information she received by merely listening to what folks said to each other while collecting their mail.
“Oh, Ellie, hello. I’m doing all right, I suppose. My back, you know. And people are in such terrible moods. Everyone is angry and upset. Poor Emma is beside herself. Not only was that man found in her yard, but her garden is completely destroyed.”
I nodded. “Yes, I know. We should all pitch in and help her put it back together. After all, everyone loved Emma’s garden.”
Joan sniffed. “Not everyone.”
Perfect. Just what I wanted to hear. “Oh?”
She carefully plucked a dying petunia leaf and dropped it to the ground. “You know those two who lived next door?”
“To Emma? You mean Aggie and Rita?”
She nodded. “Oh, yes.”
“Did they say anything to you?” The “to you” part was a courtesy. Joan made note of everything that was said in her little kingdom, whether it was said to her or not.
She glanced around. Elliot Street, which could be affectionately called the commercial center of Mt. Abrams, was deserted. The library, a few doors down, had its door open, but no one was sitting out front. The Old Firehouse was shut and still. The houses on the street were quiet. Midday in the summer was a very quiet time in Mt. Abrams.
Nonetheless, she lowered her voice. “They ran into Harry Floyd and asked to borrow his ladder.” She raised her eyebrows. “He said they could have it as long as they wanted.”
She turned and marched into the post office.
I didn’t know who Harry Floyd was, but then, I didn’t know lots of people who lived in Mt. Abrams. But somebody I did know could undoubtedly point him out, and maybe he would be willing to tell me what Aggie and Rita needed a ladder for. I followed Joan into the post office, dug in my pocket for my box key, and pulled out a few bits of mail. I was going through the motions, trying to figure out what to do next, when one envelope jumped out at me.
It was addressed to Caitlyn. From Lyon, France.
Her acceptance—or not—to a two-year fellowship in a strange place very far from home.
Seriously too much for my brain to handle.
I held the envelope up to the light, as though trying to read whatever was inside.
“Joanie” I called. “When was this?”
She appeared in her window. “When was what?”
Honestly—what were we just talking about? “When did they talk to Harry Floyd?”
“When did who talk to Harry Floyd?”
Oh my God. “Aggie and Rita?”
“Oh!” She looked thoughtful. “About six weeks ago. It was the same day Sharon told Lynn Fahey she was divorcing her husband.”
I stared at her. “Sharon Butler? Divorcing her husband?”
Joan glanced around. The post office lobby was empty except for me. Who on earth was she looking for? “Yes. Apparently, he’s gay. Has been for years.”
I remembered what Carol said, about Walt and an Irish lad. Butler was an Irish name. David had lived in Mt. Abrams all his life. He and Sharon had gone through school together. Had she known then?
If she had, what did that mean, exactly?
I clutched Cait’s letter and the Best Decorated House trophy to my chest and practically ran home.
Oddly enough, Sam was not nearly as excited about my information gathering as I thought he should be. In fact, his reaction was downright negative.
“Didn’t I tell you to leave this to the professionals? Meaning me and the police, not to mention the FBI? Did you not hear me say that? We’re dealing with a very dangerous person here, Ellie. What did you think you were doing?”
“I thought I was getting some pretty helpful stuff. Like maybe Aggie and Rita were trashing Emma’s garden.”
“And why is that helpful, exactly?”
We were out to dinner. Cait and Tessa decided to celebrate their newest trophy by feasting at Qdoba, followed by homemade ice cream at Denville Dairy. While my stomach was jumping up and down with pure excitement at the possibilities, my head remained focused on those last pounds to lose. So after I gave the girls some money and waved good-bye, I called Sam and suggested a quick dinner at Zeke’s, where I knew I could get a great Thai chicken salad. He said yes. Dinner was lovely. The after-dinner coffee was where things got sticky.
“Look, Sam,” I explained patiently. “We thought that Emma’s garden getting vandalized was related to the possibility of her digging up Walt, which is what happened. And Rita getting killed was also related to Walt. If you take the vandalizing part out of the equation, everything changes.”
He exhaled very loudly. “Who is the we in this? Because the police have several theories, including the possibility that the events are totally unrelated.”
I sat back. “What? Are you kidding? Of course they’re related.”
“Ellie, Walter Malleck was a much despised drunkard who was hit with a blunt object and buried under newly-planted lilac bushes that may or may not have been planted for the express purpose of creating a convenient grave. His disappearance was reported after his family returned from a weekend trip that gave them all alibis. Rita Ferris was generally liked and respected. She should have been sitting on her porch
Saturday morning, but was killed in a place no one knew she would be, on the spur of the moment, by either an extremely lucky or very clever killer. Why are they necessarily connected?”
I stared into my coffee. I hated when he got logical. “It’s just a feeling,” I muttered. “What about David Butler being gay?”
He sat back and threw up his hands. “What about it? That’s not a crime, you know.”
“Yes, I know. But what if he was the one Walter was having an affair with? Paula said he had no interest in sex, and David was young and lived right in town…”
“So was Louise Lombardi, young and living in town.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Lou?”
He looked uncomfortable. “I told you, I’m naturally suspicious of anyone who can play Name the Body and win.”
“You like Lou Lombardi as Walt’s killer?”
“Shhh.” He looked around. “Ellie, please. I should not be talking to you about this at all. I just want to make it clear that you need to stop poking into things. We have some pretty exceptional people looking into this. Don’t make waves. Please.”
“Okay,” I said. But I was thinking that what I really needed to do was talk to Sharon Butler.
Thursday did not start well. The lake was still closed off as a crime scene, and Cait had a lunch shift. I had not heard a word from her about what was in her letter. She had taken it from me without a word and carried it upstairs. I had thought about going through her room while she was at work, but decided that was a dishonest, not to mention childish, thing to do. Besides, Tessa was up my butt all day. I finally talked her and Jerome into a Star Wars marathon, allowing me to at least get some work done.
I texted Shelly after lunch.
We need to talk to Sharon Did u know David was gay? They’re getting divorced
It took her less than a minute to get back to me.
I know! No way! Says who?
Joanie
Of course. Ill b up after dinner
That made me feel better.
I sent my edits off to my new author and read a bunch of emails. I tried to keep focused on work, but my brain was going in too many directions. I finally decided I needed to go out, but what about Tessa and Jerome?
“Do you want to walk Boot around the lake?”
“No.”
“How about going to the library?”
“No.”
“We could walk down to Dunkin’ Donuts, and I’ll buy you Munchkins.”
Tessa glared at me. “You made us sit and watch these movies, and now you want us to go outside? Make up your mind. Besides, it’s cool in here and gross out there. What’s for supper? Can Jerome stay?”
“Hot dogs. Yes.” She had a point. The humidity had soared overnight, and just opening the front door let in a blast of air so humid my hair immediately frizzed up to my ears.
“I’m taking Boot for a quickie. Stay here.”
Tessa rolled her eyes at me before returning them to the TV screen.
Boot wasn’t too thrilled about going out either. We walked over to the clubhouse. I looked over the taped-off areas again. What had happened here?
Rita had walked up onto the clubhouse. No one would have been there, but maybe someone had seen her? She wouldn’t have been alarmed if she had seen someone. After all, any number of people had a reason to be up there. She was the one who didn’t belong. She was there because she’d left her phone.
I walked up to the screened-in porch. It was huge, running the length of the clubhouse, with more than a dozen round glass tables with six to eight chairs around each. Glass-front doors led into the house. It was all taped off, of course, so I walked around to the boathouse.
The boathouse had been built in the forties, a squat, ugly building that served as a massive storage spot for all the rowboats canoes, and outdoor furniture that belonged to the lake association. The double doors were usually padlocked, but I saw the chain was loose, and the doors were open a crack. I pushed them open further and walked in. Boot sniffed happily. “Hello?” I called.
Silence.
It was a huge cavern of a place, with canoes and kayaks hung on the walls and large coils of rope in the back corners. The sunlight barely reached in a few feet from the doorway, and most of the interior sank back in the darkness.
It was cool and smelled damp and moldy. Kind of creepy.
“What are you doing here, Ellie?” A quiet voice asked.
I looked around. There, coming out of the shadows, was David Butler.
I jumped about a foot in the air. What was he doing here? “Just looking around. Trying to imagine what Rita did up here before she died.”
He moved closer. He was dressed in denim shorts and a polo shirt, and was wearing scuffed sneakers. “Not died. Was murdered,” he said.
I felt something run up my spine. “Yes. That’s right. Murdered. And what are you doing here?”
He shrugged. “Just seeing if there are any Founders’ Day remnants we may have forgotten. Sharon is a little, well, obsessive about stuff.”
I tried to smile, but my lips were very dry. “Yes, I can imagine her being that way about certain things.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked away from me. “About all things.”
He was not a terribly attractive man, rather thin and scrawny, with that brownish hair that looked like no color at all. His eyes were gray or light brown or some nondescript shade, with pale brows and no eyelashes. I knew he was in his early thirties, but he looked older. More…worn. He perfectly fit in to the odd and slightly unnerving feel of the boathouse. I was suddenly reminded of the movie Psycho and how Tony Perkins managed to perfectly match the weird house behind the motel.
Had he been Walter Malleck’s lover fourteen years ago? He would have been in high school. He and Sharon, according to local legend, were already in love and planning to wed.
“Has she always been like that? So organized, I mean.” I tried to keep my voice cheerful. “You’ve known her a long time, right?”
“Forever.” He must have realized that he sounded a bit unenthusiastic, so he smiled woodenly and added, “and it’s been wonderful.”
“High school sweethearts, right? You two are kind of legendary up here.”
He nodded. “Yes. I asked her out our sophomore year. We really hadn’t dated all that long, but she had staked her claim. We’ve been together ever since.”
“Yes.” That was a rather strange way of putting it. Staked her claim. Almost as though he really hadn’t much to say about it all. “How’s Keith?” Their son, I knew, was around eight.
His face transformed. His eyes lit up, and he looked almost happy. “Keith is great, just great. Bummed out about last weekend, of course, but I’m taking him to Beach Haven tomorrow. Just the two of us.”
“How nice.”
He nodded and walked closer to me. “I always take the week after Founders’ Day off from work. It’s nice to get away after all the fuss and bother. Keith gets a little stressed out. Sharon has a tendency to, well, micromanage the weekend.”
I had a feeling that Sharon micromanaged just about everything in their lives. Boot had been waiting somewhat patiently, but now she strained at the leash. “Well, I guess I should go.”
“So, what do you think did happen?” he asked me suddenly. His Keith-face was gone. He looked old and a little creepy again.
“Ah, you mean with Rita? Well…” I took a few steps back and was out of the boathouse and once again in the light. I took a deep breath, and realized I had been frightened. Of David? Really? He was so skinny, if he had tried to grab me I would have easily body blocked him and knocked him to the ground.
“She made it into the clubhouse. She looked around and found her phone. Whoever killed her was very lucky, don’t you think? To be there at the same time?” I moved closer to the dock. “Whoever did it had grabbed an oar, then followed her in, hit her, then dragged her back out.” I frowned, thinking. “Why not leave her in the clubhouse? W
hy risk being seen dragging her to the boat?”
David had moved and was suddenly right beside me. “Indeed.” Boot whined and tugged again at the leash. “Why do you think she was followed in?”
I searched his face. It was perfectly smooth, his small, almost colorless eyes hooded and still. “How else could it have happened? There’s no way anyone could have been waiting for her, is there?”
He turned abruptly, closed the doors, and picked up the chain. He snapped the padlock shut. “You’re right,” he said. “Have a good day, Ellie.”
He walked away quickly, hands back in his pockets.
Chapter 9
Cait came home from work and went straight upstairs. I was deciding whether to grill everything outside or remain in air-conditioned comfort when she came back down, the letter in her hand.
“They said yes,” she blurted.
My heart dropped. Of course, I wanted what she wanted. And living in France had been a dream of hers for years. I looked at her face. “Why aren’t you happy?”
She swallowed hard, and tears welled up in her eyes. “I think I’m in love with Kyle.”
“Oh, baby.” I crossed the kitchen and put my arms around her. She was taller than I was, but she was still my first-born little girl. “Oh, Cait. Honey. I can’t even imagine how hard this must be.”
She wasn’t exactly crying, but she hugged me back, and I felt her trembling. There was nothing I could say or do except wait for her.
She finally stepped back, her eyes red. “I’m afraid if I go we’ll lose our chance at happiness. I can’t expect him to wait. Real life isn’t like that. But if I stay with him, I’m afraid I might resent him later for keeping me from doing something I’ve wanted my whole life.” She slumped down in a chair. “What should I do?”
