by Mark McNease
“She thought he was the predator,” Heather continued. “I don’t know why. Maybe she owed him money for work he’d done and she didn’t pay him. He could be aggressive about that kind of thing. Or maybe she’d come on to him—it wouldn’t be the first time a lonely, married woman did that—and he’d rejected her. Whatever her reasons, she started telling people, in that small town ‘I’m just saying’ kind of way we have, that she thought my father had something to do with the Lilly Stapley kidnapping.”
“Did he?” asked Maggie. It was an obvious question, and one she immediately regretted.
“Of course he didn’t have anything to do with it!” Heather snapped. “That didn’t stop her from repeatedly suggesting he did. He always drank more than he should, but after that it was a long downward spiral, resulting in the broken man you see now. There, Mrs. Dahl. You have it. I bought her debt to keep her here.”
“I didn’t know she was leaving.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know. Alice was planning to sell her house and leave town, cats and all. But she had to pay the piper first.”
“The piper being you.”
“Correct. The bank wouldn’t give her a second mortgage, you see.”
“But Dahlia Getty would.”
“You’re a sharp lady. Between her house payment, her gambling debt, and the money she now owed to me, Alice wasn’t going anywhere. I wanted Alice here and miserable. I’d hoped that would be enough to kill her, but I would never do it myself.”
The sound of the door opening drew their attention. Heather McGill, seeing a new visitor and a way to end the conversation, drew a smile to her face. “Welcome,” she said over Maggie’s shoulder, then to Maggie, “You can leave now.”
Maggie had nothing else to say to her. She waved at Gerri, who’d turned to watch them. “We’ll do that. Thank you for the information.”
“It wasn’t much.” Leaning and in whispering, she added, “I hope you find Alice’s killer, not because I’m sorry she’s dead, but because Lambertville doesn’t need another unsolved murder.”
“You think Lilly Stapley was killed?”
Heather shrugged. “It’s been ten years. I wouldn’t want those odds.”
Maggie nodded. Gerri joined her at the desk, and together they left Valley Visions as quietly as they’d arrived.
CHAPTER Twenty-Three
HALLOWEEN WAS FAST APPROACHING AND Maggie was feeling the pressures that had accumulated in her life the past six months. David was gone forever, leaving her with a home, a business, and an ocean of grief she would be navigating for years to come. Her sister was living in their house. Maggie had admitted to herself that it was still very much David’s house, too, and she wasn’t sure how he would feel about Gerri planting her flag in an upstairs bedroom. The factory was keeping up with its orders, though another large one would strain it to its limits, and the store was about to open.
She regretted not opening Dahl House Jams and Specialties a week sooner. Halloween was in full swing in Lambertville, and she saw every gawker strolling the streets taking selfies and photos of the outlandish decorations as a lost sale. I could have sold a jam to that one, she thought, staring out the front window at the passersby. I could have sold a butter dish to them.
“What are you thinking?” Gerri asked.
They’d headed to the store after Maggie’s conversation with Heather McGill. Maggie didn’t have a particular reason to go there—everything was in order and she expected to have the grand opening in two days as planned—but it had become a safe place for her. David was here. He was at the factory, too, and in every room of her house. She wanted to be where she felt his presence, and the store was still a quiet space.
“I was wishing it was over,” Maggie replied.
“The murder investigation?”
“All of it. The house renovation. The store opening. The whole Alice thing, for sure. I don’t know why I care. And frankly, the more I learn about Alice Drapier, the less I think I should care. She wasn’t a nice person.”
“No, but she was your neighbor. If you hadn’t pursued this, the things you liked about her would be all you know. So she had secrets. We all do.”
The statement made Maggie think. Did she have secrets? Her fondness for shooting, her trips to the firing range with David—she supposed those could be called secrets. But she had never done something she’d kept from others out of guilt. She didn’t have dark secrets.
“Do you have secrets?” Maggie asked.
“If I told you, they wouldn’t be secrets anymore, would they?” Gerri winked at Maggie. “So what’s next?”
“I’m not sure. I believe Chip is at the center of it, but I can’t imagine how.”
“The alcoholic handyman did it?”
Maggie shrugged. “I just cannot see Chip hurting anyone.”
“But you could see him breaking into your house.”
“I don’t know, Gerri! I certainly can’t see him bringing a hammer down on Alice’s head. But I couldn’t see Alice owing money to a loan shark or spreading vicious rumors about Chip, either. You’re the one who said we all have secrets.”
“Yes, and some of them are worth killing for, don’t forget that.”
Gerri went to a coatrack in the corner and slid her jacket off the hook.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m heading home to change for dinner.”
“Oh,” said Maggie, “I thought I’d make something …”
Smiling, Gerri stopped her. “No need. I’m dining with Tom again.”
Maggie knew her sister was very much an adult, and that her choices were none of her business as long as they did not involve her home, but she had great misgivings about Gerri developing a romantic life less than a week after moving in.
“What exactly are you looking for?”
Gerri stared at Maggie, annoyance flashing in her eyes. “I’m not looking for anything. I have my own gold, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I didn’t mean that, Gerri.”
“Companionship, then. Let’s just say I’m looking for new friends in a new place, and Tom Brightmore promises to be one of them.”
Maggie nodded: well enough. Gerri slipped her coat on and walked to the door. She turned back to Maggie and said, “Don’t worry about me. He’s a nice man, younger, I know, but who doesn’t deserve that? It’s dinner, for godsake, Maggie. Life has crapped on me a few times, let me just enjoy this.”
Maggie knew she was right. Gerri had had more than her share of hardships, obstacles and abandonments. She was a tough one, and she could handle herself. It was time for Maggie to let her.
“Have a good time,” Maggie said. “I might see you at the house before you leave, I might not. I’m stopping at the factory first.”
“Say hello to the crew,” Gerri said. Then she left and closed the door behind her, the bell tinkling as the door shut.
Maggie watched her walk up the street. She wished she’d left Alice’s murder to the police, or, better yet, that she’d never found Alice’s body. But it was too late now. She’d gone down a path she would not veer from. What she discovered at the end of it could be life, death, or none of the above. She thought about the gun in the night stand.
She awoke with a start. It had not been a dream that disturbed her this time. She hadn’t dreamed at all. The hours she’d been asleep—for the first thing she did when her eyes opened was look at the nightstand clock and see it was 1:00 a.m.—had been mercifully free of thoughts and images. A black void, the kind in which she finally rested and that she had enjoyed so few of the past six months.
So what had made her wake up? Checks was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the door. Not curled, but sitting, a silent feline sentinel in the night. Had the intruder returned? Maggie listened for any sounds, even as she reached over the edge of the bed and opened the drawer where the gun was. She let her fingers caress it, but she did not take it out. Something told her no one was in the house, there was no re
ason to arm herself.
Leaving the drawer open just in case, she slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the door. Checks remained on the bedspread, letting Maggie take the lead in whatever was about to happen. She eased into the door frame and stuck her head out, listening. Still no sounds. She looked left, then right. And she saw it: Gerri’s bedroom door was open. The TV light was not casting shadows on the floor. Gerri wasn’t home.
“Really?” Maggie said to herself, as she headed down the hallway to her sister’s room.
Checks jumped off the bed and followed.
Maggie reached Gerri’s room and looked in. The bed was still made. Everything was exactly as it had been when Gerri went out for her dinner date.
Looking down at Checks, who was now at her feet, Maggie said, “What are we going to do with my sister, Checks? I’m open to suggestions.”
Knowing she had the choice of waiting up for Gerri or returning to bed, Maggie reminded herself that her sister was forty-nine years old and perfectly capable of taking care of herself, even without a gun.
She went back to bed, hoping that the void of rest and peace was still there when she got back to sleep. She’d had enough for one day—for one lifetime—and she needed the bliss of unconsciousness. She would deal with her sister in the light of day.
Leaving the nightstand drawer open, Maggie pulled the bedspread over her. She reached out and petted Checks. The cat curled into a ball this time, still staring at the door but letting Maggie know it was safe to close her eyes again … for now.
DAY 5
“Those who’ll play with cats must expect to be scratched.”
– Miquel de Cervantes
CHAPTER Twenty-Four
NEITHER WOMAN SPOKE. MAGGIE WAS making breakfast for herself while Gerri sat at the kitchen table drinking her first cup of coffee. Maggie had been up for two hours and was dressed for the day; Gerri had been up for two minutes, from the look of it, and had chosen not to initiate a conversation.
Buttering her toast, Maggie said, “So, sister … late night? Or did you just get home?”
“Cute,” said Gerri. “You know perfectly well I was out late. You probably stayed up until you heard me come in.”
“I did no such thing. I’ll admit I knew you were out. Something woke me up around one.”
“Not an intruder again, I hope.”
“No. It was nothing. I just woke up. I checked things out and saw you hadn’t come home yet.”
Gerri took another sip of coffee. “I’m forty-nine years old, Maggie. Fifty in December. I think I can stay out past my curfew.”
Maggie brought her plate over and sat across from Gerri.
“You don’t have a curfew. I just worry about you.” After a moment, she added, “So how did it go? Did you stay the night?”
Gerri smiled. “You mean did we sleep together? I do wish we could do away with euphemisms. The question is, did we have sex? The answer is, no. Not this time.”
Maggie’s eyebrow arched. “But maybe next time?”
“I’m hoping soon. I could use a little man action. Anything would be better than my last husband. Make that all three of them.”
Maggie waited a moment for Gerri to continue. When she didn’t, Maggie said, “Fair enough. If you don’t want to talk about it …”
“I do! Just not right now. I’d rather savor it a little while.”
“Savor? Oh, my.”
“We had a wonderful time. We talked. That’s all we did, but we really talked. Two divorcees spending an evening together getting to know each other. And that’s all I feel like saying for now. What are you up to today?”
Maggie offered Gerri a piece of toast. She took it and nibbled, waiting for Maggie to answer.
“Chip’s coming over to do more work and I want to have a conversation with him.”
“About killing Alice Drapier?”
“I’d never be that blunt,” said Maggie. “I want to carefully ask him about a key he had made.”
Surprised, Gerri said, “You think he secretly had a key made to this house?”
“It wasn’t a secret. David wanted him to have one so he could work on renovation projects while we were out.”
Gerri grew serious. “It was him.”
“I don’t know that. I want to think it wasn’t him, but he’s connected to all this and I just want to put some feelers out, that’s all.”
“You’re living dangerously, Maggie. Don’t the neighbors always say, ‘He was such a nice man!’ when someone gets arrested for killing his family? If murderers looked the part, we’d be much safer. I can’t stop you, but I can tell you to be careful.”
“I could say the same to you, staying out half the night with a man you just met.”
Finished with her toast, Gerri set half the slice back on Maggie’s plate.
“Touché. Let’s both be careful. And I promise to tell you all about Tom Brightmore and our enchanting evening in his living room. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to properly get up for the day.”
Gerri left the table and headed out of the kitchen. Turning around in the doorway, she said, “The bathroom light’s out, by the way. The one over the sink.”
“I’ll go to Davies Hardware this afternoon and get a replacement. Can you see well enough until then?”
“Yes,” Gerri replied. “I only needed to look my best last night.”
She waved bye-bye to Maggie and headed upstairs.
Maggie glanced at the clock: Chip McGill was set to arrive in twenty minutes. She planned on asking him a question or two and hoped he gave the right answers.
Maggie had never hovered over Chip when he was working. For one thing, she would find it annoying if someone stood over her at her job—her bosses had done it enough over the years—and for another, Chip knew what he was doing. He may have a drinking problem, but when it came to home repairs, painting, and fixing fireplaces, he was as good as anyone.
Her discomfort was heightened by knowing what she’d learned from Chip’s daughter. Watching him scrape the mantle on her fireplace, she had a new respect for the man. He’d been accused of abducting a young girl, condemned by gossip for something he didn’t do. Alice’s whisper campaign had ruined his marriage and embittered his daughter to the point of vengeance. But was the purchase of Alice’s debt the only revenge exacted?
Chip didn’t seem to notice Maggie stalling in the living room while he worked on the fireplace. She usually made small talk with him, then went on about her day. He didn’t see her when she casually walked over to his toolbox and peered into it. He was oblivious to her look of curiosity when she saw a new hammer among his tools, complete with the fresh price tag on it.
Where is the old hammer? thought Maggie. She’d never paid any attention to Chip’s toolbox before. It was like any toolbox she’d ever seen, dented, scraped, and filled with tools sticking out every which way. But the hammer was on top, and it was new. Surely, she thought, the old one had not been left on Alice Drapier’s kitchen floor. Even a drunken Chip McGill would not be that sloppy in the commitment of murder.
Maggie cleared her throat, getting Chip’s attention. He was on his hands and knees now, prying tile loose from the floor around the fireplace.
Turning to her, Chip said, “I didn’t see you there, Mrs. Dahl. Sorry. Did you need something?”
Pushing thoughts of the hammer away, Maggie said, “I wanted to ask you about the house key David had you make for yourself.”
Chip cocked his head: this was an odd question. “What about it?”
Lying, Maggie said, “Did he ever pay you for it? For having the key made?”
She felt ridiculous. David had been dead for six months. The key would have cost a couple dollars. And now she was asking about it? She hoped Chip would write it off as an afterthought from a grieving widow.
Chip said, “Mr. Dahl always gave me money when I needed to buy things for the house. And besides, I didn’t keep the key.”
Maggie stared at him a mo
ment. “I don’t understand.”
“I had it made because he asked me to,” Chip explained. “But I gave the key—and the change—to Mr. Dahl.”
Chip was clearly uncomfortable. He sat up on his haunches and continued.
“I don’t want keys to people’s houses. It can lead to … misunderstandings.”
“Did you have a key to the Stapley’s house?” Maggie asked, surprised she’d blurted it out.
Looking as if someone had slapped him, Chip took a deep breath and replied, “Yes, Mrs. Dahl, I did. I did handy work for Mrs. Stapley now and then. The police asked me that same question, several times, even though the child wasn’t taken from her home. I had nothing to do with the Stapley girl’s disappearance, and I have never kept a key to anyone’s house since. If someone wants me to do work for them, they can meet me at the front door, or the back, doesn’t matter to me. But I won’t be using a key. Now if you’ll excuse me …”
Maggie had flushed hot with shame. She hadn’t meant to upset Chip, only to pry carefully. She’s failed spectacularly. She started to leave the room, leaving him to his anger.
“We had an affair,” Chip said over his shoulder, stopping Maggie.
She turned back, listening.
Without facing her again, Chip said, “Alice and me. It went on for a few months, that’s all. But she wasn’t who I thought she was. She wanted … I don’t know, really. Everything. Me to leave my wife. Her to leave her husband. It was crazy.”
Maybe I should have called her Crazy Alice after all, Maggie thought.
“I said that was not going to happen, and she hated me for it. Really hated me. But what she did, the things she said when Lilly Stapley went missing …”
Maggie looked at Chip. His back was to her, but she saw him wipe away a tear—whether of rage or sorrow she couldn’t tell.
“You don’t need to say anymore,” Maggie said. “I’m so sorry I brought this up. I’ll leave you alone, Chip.”
