“Are they throwing up?” Amber’s eyes widened as she slurped a noodle into her mouth.
“No, but they feel terrible.”
“Okay then. I’m sorry I gave you my mad look. I take it back.” Amber smiled at me, and my heart melted.
“I agree,” Bethany said, pointing at me with a spoon. “That was really nice. I’m sorry I’ve been so mean to you. Did you get me split pea?”
“I sure did.” I said, handing hers across the table. “When do you need to be at that party?”
“Six o’clock,” Bethany answered.
I checked the clock on the wall. Yikes. Where had the day gone? The plan was for me to drop Bethany at her Halloween party on our way to trick-or-treating with her friend, Lily. “Okay, then gobble up, so we can get you ready, Amber.”
The soup was slurped in record time. By five forty-five we had Amber into her Cleopatra get-up, complete with our homemade crown and a black wig left over from a previous Halloween. We passed Howard on our way out the door, pointed to the candy bowl and blew him kisses. By five forty-nine we were in the van with wheels rolling. How we pulled it off, I’ll never know. Possibly a wrinkle in time. I’m sure Moyle could tell me if I asked. As soon as I found a half of a second to locate him.
After dropping Bethany off, we were on our way to Lily’s house when her mother called and said Lily had a fever and was throwing up. While we felt terrible for Lily, Amber and I now had a Halloween dilemma to resolve. With no street lights or sidewalks, our neighborhood was terrible for trick-or-treating. We always went door to door for candy in well-lit neighborhoods that were easy for walking.
I pulled over to the curb while I worked out a plan. I looked at the clock on my dash. Time was running out. I still needed to go by Olga’s house to see if her Bob-the-gardener was in fact, my Moyle-the-time-traveler.
Knowing where Olga lived, I realized the answer to both problems might be solved. Her neighborhood was perfect for trick-or-treating. I stretched my neck to look at Amber in the rearview mirror. “Doesn’t Lauren Crouch live on Tall Poplar Lane? Would you like to trick-or-treat with her?”
“Yes! She says the people on her street give out gigantic candy bars.”
“Gigantic candy bars, here we come.” I placed both hands on top of the steering wheel and made a U-turn. Within minutes we were pulling up to the curb in front of Lauren Crouch’s.
We arrived just in time. The kids were running out the front door, plastic pumpkins in hands. Glow sticks, glow necklaces, and glow bracelets were everywhere. The Crouches had six and three-quarter kids.
Tami, dressed as an apple, was very pregnant with their seventh.
Amber and I met the crew on the sidewalk in front of their house. “Hey,” I said, “do you mind if we trick-or-treat with you guys?”
“Sure.” Her smile was brighter than all of the glow sticks. “The more the merrier. Hi, Amber!”
“Thanks,” I said, falling into step with her as she waddled down the sidewalk. “Where did you get your costume?”
“I made it. Where’s yours?”
“I don’t sew,” I answered without a hint of apology.
“You should have told me.” She passed a flashlight to a toddler-sized ladybug. “I could have whipped up something for you. You could have been a hashtag.”
I groaned. “Are you mocking me?”
“Just some fun teasing. She’s hilarious though, isn’t she?” Tami looked at her cell phone.
“Who?”
“Sharon Forrest.”
I snorted. “Hilarious like a hemorrhoid.”
“No, she’s funny. And smart. Now, not only will she sell that house in your neighborhood, but she’ll probably get another five or ten grand over asking.”
“How smart? I mean, she couldn’t have known ahead of time that a man would be killed, and she certainly couldn’t have predicted that Guy Mertz would tweet out a hashtag with my name in it.” I gave that some thought. “Or, did she know a man was killed because she killed him? Is she that kind of smart? Like killer smart?”
Tami waved off my theory. “No, of course not. She isn’t a killer. True, she was in the right place at the right time, and that hashtag business was just plain lucky, but she knew what she was doing when she sought out that camera to be interviewed. That’s how Sharon operates—she sees an opportunity, and she jumps on it.”
“I don’t know. I think she just sees an opportunity to be annoying and jumps on it. How do you know so much about her, anyway?” I peered ahead into the darkness to watch for Amber among the Crouch brood. When I spotted her, I noticed she had acquired a few glow bracelets.
“I used to do some part-time work for Sharon. Paperwork and filing mostly. You should give her a chance. She has a good heart.” Rubbing her belly, Tami blew out a breath. “She volunteers all over town—the library, the homeless shelter, the Nature Center, you name it.” She winced and looked at her cell phone again.
That was very interesting news indeed. The homeless shelter and the Nature Center. Speaking of the homeless shelter, I had a time traveler to find. “Hey, while we’re on the topic of the Nature Center, a woman named Olga works there, and she lives on your street.”
She nodded. “Olga Koslov. The kids love her. We’re coming up to her house in a minute. The one down there on the left with the fog machine and orange lights in the trees.” She winced again. “And, I’m afraid that’s it for me and trick-or-treating for the night.”
“Feet hurt?”
“Nope, contractions three minutes apart.” She called out to her Dracula-costumed husband, who led the troop of kids farther down the sidewalk. “Honey, time to go! Mom, we’ll see you tomorrow,” Tami said to the gray-haired gypsy a few steps ahead. “Love you kids!” Her brood turned long enough to wave before dashing up to another house.
My mouth dropped open. “You’re in labor?”
“Sure. For the last four hours. My births are all super easy—little Fiona will probably be here by nine o’clock, don’t you think, honey?” Dracula jogged back toward us and took his wife’s elbow. “Sorry we didn’t have longer to chat,” she said turning back. “But have a great night. And tell Sharon Forrest I said hello.”
I felt lucky to have caught Tami for a chat before her contractions were two minutes apart. She had provided some good information. I found it very interesting that Sharon Forrest not only used my name to gain traction on the resale of House of Many Bones, but she also happened to volunteer at the homeless shelter and the Nature Center. Very interesting connection there. I frowned. Maybe.
Two houses later, the kids knocked on Olga’s door.
She appeared, wearing a jeweled crown and a floor-length robe stitched with gold thread, and made a point of complimenting each child’s costume as she threw candy into their pumpkins. “Look at you Mr. Pikachu!” and “Ack! You scare me Dracula. Do not drink my blood, okay?” When she spotted me, her eyes narrowed. “Barbara Marr. Where is your costume?”
“No time,” I laughed. “I’ve been a little busy, as you know. Who are you?”
The Crouch clan of kids scampered off. I signaled to their grandma to go on without us.
Olga threw a few more pieces of candy into Amber’s pumpkin. “You are Barbara’s daughter, yes?”
Amber nodded, her eyes wide, inspecting Olga’s ensemble. “I love your crown.”
“I thank you. I love your crown too. I am Princess Olga, first woman ruler of Russia. You are…” she rubbed her chin as if giving it some thought. “Cleopatra?”
“We’re studying ancient Egypt in school,” Amber said. “So, I decided on this costume.”
“Two great women rulers—I think I like you. Do you have a real name?”
“Amber.”
“You would like to come in for hot cocoa, Amber Cleopatra? This is okay with Mama?” Olga cut her gaze to me.
Amber looked to me for approval.
“Sure,” I said. “That would be nice.”
We stepped insi
de the house, which was sparsely decorated. The austerity fit her personality. “While you fix up the hot cocoa, Olga, would you mind if I visited your gardener, Bob?”
“It is not for me to mind. He’s in guest house out back.” She pointed at a door I could see through the kitchen. “You go through that door there, follow path.”
“Amber, are you okay with staying with Olga and helping her give out candy for a few minutes?”
Apparently, Olga already had hot cocoa brewing in a crock pot. Amber eagerly accepted a steamy mug. “Sure, Mom, I'm good.”
Olga’s directions were easy to follow, but I used the flashlight app on my cell phone to guide me through the dark. The guest house was small, about the size of a backyard shed. Curtained windows flanked each side of the front door. Light spilling through the curtains indicated that someone might be home.
I knocked on the door and immediately, one of the curtains pulled back. The face in the window was Moyle’s.
“Moyle,” I said, “it’s me, Barb. Let me in.”
He pulled the door open and shushed me. “My landlady thinks my name is Bob.” He yanked me inside and shut the door.
“I know. Olga told me. Why did you give her a fake name?”
One eyebrow arched. “How do you know Moyle isn’t a fake name?”
He had a point. “Is it?”
“Depends on when you know me. Hey, ya like my digs? Swanky, huh?”
I scanned the room. Bed in one corner, a worn-but-clean loveseat facing a decades-old television, and a kitchenette in the other corner. “Nice. Is that a bathroom behind that door there?”
“Yup. Toilet, shower, sink. Can’t ask for more.” He took a step toward his kitchenette. “Can I get ya a cup of tea or something?”
“No thanks. I can’t stay long.”
“Good, because I don’t have any tea.” Moyle opened the front door. “It’s been nice seein’ ya. Stop by again sometime.”
“Wait, I came to talk.” I gave him my best smile, hoping that would relax him.
“Geez, I wish ya’d make up your mind.” Moyle closed the door. “Cup of coffee?”
Raising my brows, I asked, “You don’t have coffee either, do you?”
He shook his head.
Boy. This was going to be interesting. “Moyle, I need to ask you about Bernie Ford and Pickle.”
“Whatda ya wanna know?” Sitting down on the loveseat, Moyle crossed his arms and looked over at me.
“You came to my house and said I should ask Bernie Ford about Pickle’s death. Now she’s missing. Do you know what she has to do with his murder?”
Moyle shrugged. “It’s just a hunch. Been having dreams.”
“Dreams?”
“Bernie. Pickle. Ed. They’re in these dreams.” Moyle stretched out his legs in front of him, and crossed them at the ankles.
“Ed Sigmund?”
He nodded. “Ed and Pickle are both dead now. Maybe my dreams are premonitions. Ya think Bernie is dead too?” Moyle’s brow wrinkled.
“I don’t know.” I sincerely hoped not. “You don’t have anything more concrete than just these dreams?”
“There’s a neon sign in my dreams too. It flashes red and blue, red and blue. Gives me a headache.” Moyle squinted and pressed her fingers to his temples.
“What does it say?”
“What does what say?”
Now I was getting a headache. “The sign. What does the sign in your dreams say?”
He held up his index finger. “One word: 'Pogo'.”
“Does that mean anything to you?”
Moyle made a cutting motion through the air. “Nothing.”
“How long have you known them? Bernie, Ed, and Pickle, I mean.”
He shrugged. “Not so long. Or maybe eons. You know me and time. It’s all a little sketchy. Met Ed first at the Nature Center when Olga asked me to help with some path cleanup work. Then he introduced me to Bernie and Pickle. They needed some work done around their houses—like I do for Olga. I figured why not.” Moyle rubbed his temples. “I feel like there’s more to that story, but it’s just not coming to me right now.”
“Well, here’s the thing. The investigator working Pickle’s murder wants to ask you some questions. Would you be okay if I sent him here to talk with you?”
Fear shone in his eyes. “Is he with the police?”
“Yes, but he’s a good guy. He just wants to see if you might know something that could be helpful to his investigation.”
“Do I have to?” Moyle hunched over and stared at the floor.
“How about if I come with him?” I moved to stand at his door, resting my hand on the knob.
“Well, maybe. Let me think about it.”
I opened the door to leave. “Don’t think long. I’m going to Charlottesville tomorrow for the day, but I should be back by eight o’clock or so. I’ll stop here on my way home to get your answer, which I hope will be yes. Otherwise, I’ll have to lie to him and I don’t like to lie.” I stepped into the cool evening air, not entirely sure I’d see Moyle again. Something told me he was about to “twist through time” and fall off my radar.
Chapter Thirteen
I awoke early the next morning excited for my trip to Charlottesville and a chance to see Meryl Streep in the flesh. My throat was scratchy so I popped a couple vitamin C tablets and brewed up some flu bomb on the stove.
I’d planned my attire the previous night after putting Amber to bed. I needed to be comfortable for the two-hour drive, but had to look spectacular just in case, by some stroke of luck, I actually got to meet my idol. I’d decided on my new black jeans and a fancy-ish blouse with large floral print in blues and browns. The snazzy new ankle boots and a leather jacket finished my ensemble.
I poured the flu bomb into a travel mug, grabbed my purse and cell phone, and ran out the door. After locking it, I remembered that I hadn’t left Howard his instructions for getting the girls ready for school.
I set the travel mug on the stoop, unlocked the door and ran in to leave a note.
Three minutes later I was in my van, engine running, and backing out the driveway, ready to begin my adventure. A visit with Callie and chance to see Meryl Streep in action all in one day? Things didn’t get better than that.
To put myself in the mood, I used the audio book app on my phone to play an award-winning novel narrated by Ms. Streep herself. Five minutes down the road, my throat felt scratchier. I reached for my travel mug of flu bomb only to have my hand fall on nothing. I’d left it on the front stoop.
That wasn’t good. I didn't really have time to go back for it. Thank goodness I’d taken the vitamin C.
Another twenty minutes down the road, my nose started running. I felt a wee bit chilled. I turned up the heat and began to silently recite positive affirmations to myself.
You are a strong and healthy woman. Your throat feels fine and your nose is dry. Meryl Streep is in your future. I kept running the mantra over and over in my mind. When my nose began to leak like a drippy faucet, my mantra turned to, You stupid, stupid woman, why did you forget your flu bomb when everyone in the world you know has been sick?
Of course, that was a terrible mantra and not at all positive. I shook my head to stop the negative thoughts. Yet, I couldn’t stop wondering how it was possible that I might be getting sick. No one in my house had the flu—I’d bombed the heck out of them. Howard was drinking it, and so were Amber, and Bethany. Heck, even Colt drank it, and he didn’t even live in my house officially, although he did spend a lot of time there. Everyone was drinking flu bomb.
Uh-oh. Thinking back, I’d poured mugs of the stuff, but had I ever found time to drink it?
Oh man. I’d been so busy taking care of everyone else, I’d forgotten my own flu bomb.
And now it was very possible, scarily possible, that I was coming down with the flu.
Nope. That wasn’t positive. I wasn’t coming down with the flu. Probably just a little cold from being out trick-or-treat
ing last night.
Yes, that was it.
A cold.
A simple cold.
Two hours later, chilled and achy, I pulled into a visitor parking garage on the edge of campus. The walk from the garage to Callie’s dorm wasn’t too bad. Three quarters of a mile at most.
Thankfully, I found a vending machine near the exit where I bought a bottle of water to keep myself hydrated. As I took a sip, I cocked one ear, catching the sound of a familiar tune.
Was that “Purple Rain” I heard? My pulse quickened. Then I realized that even if it was, I had no reason to worry. Purple Rain Man, aka Jordan Spano, was in jail. He’d ceased to be a problem for me. I shook my head. It was probably just fluid in my ears.
The music stopped. Yep. Just fluid.
It was a pleasant day weather-wise. Mostly sunny with just a few clouds dotting the sky. The leaves on the trees shimmered gold and red. I tried to soak in the fall splendor, but now my toes were beginning to feel pinched in the new boots. Coughing, I stopped at a bench along the way. There, I unzipped one boot, removed it, felt inside to see if I’d accidentally left any of that paper packaging inside. No such luck. I did the same with the other boot. No paper. Just bad boots.
Stupid, stupid me. Who wears boots to see Meryl Streep when they haven’t been worn in yet? I gave myself another minute on the bench to rest my feet and regain some energy. A waft of cigarette smoke cut through my clogged nasal passages.
College students. Didn’t they know smoking was bad for them? I scanned the area, looking for the smoker. The dim sound of someone humming “Purple Rain” rang in my ears again.
What the heck? I began to wonder if Purple Rain Man had been released from jail. Maybe he was in cahoots with Viviana Buttaro after all. Now he stalked me to Callie’s college campus with some nefarious plan in mind. Almost immediately, I chastised myself for such silly thoughts. Nefarious plan. The flu was getting to me.
Pushing up from the bench, I hobbled on, coughing, and wiping my runny nose on a used, ketchup-stained fast food restaurant napkin from my car.
After what felt like a century of misery, I finally made it to Callie’s door. I took one more swipe of my nose with the napkin, stuffed it away in my purse, stood up straight, plastered a smile on my face and knocked. There was no way I was letting Callie know how sick I was.
Dial Marr for Murder Page 9
