by Bailey Cates
Though I could at least infer he wasn’t the type to take magical revenge on the man he blamed for his brother’s death.
A man I realized I didn’t know much better than I knew Steve, but whom I did trust. Part of that feeling I could rationalize from Declan’s relationship with Ben, and part came from the short amount of time we’d spent together.
Plus, he was a very nice kisser.
I was pretty sure Steve would be, too, given the chance. Not so much nice as hot. But for all I knew, Steve wasn’t even talking to me after the encounter with Declan at my house the evening before.
Focus, Katie.
Okay, Declan it was. If he wasn’t working.
I went out front. “Ben?”
“Hmm?” He looked up from the register receipt tape he was changing.
“What is Declan’s work schedule like?”
My uncle smiled broadly. “Firefighters typically work two twenty-four-hour shifts a week. The rest of the time they’re free. He should be free now, in fact.”
Excellent. I asked for Declan’s phone number then, which elicited yet another big grin. I ignored it. The less Ben knew about what I wanted to do, the better.
“Katie!” Declan’s surprise at my call was evident. “How’s the grand opening going?”
“It is indeed grand,” I said. “I’m actually surprised at how many customers we’ve had the first day.” I suspected Lucy et al. had cast a prosperity spell that went beyond cinnamon-laced peaches. If they had, it had sure kicked in quickly. However, Ben had also worked hard on the advertising, and word had certainly spread after the DBA brunch. And perhaps Steve was right about people wanting to check out the bakery where Mrs. Templeton had been just before someone killed her.
We chatted for a few minutes before I sprang my request. I was surprised when Declan showed so little enthusiasm about accompanying me.
“But, Deck,” I said, trying out Ben’s nickname, “I found out today that Ethan Ridge and Albert Hill knew each other long before Mrs. Templeton was killed. In fact, they’ve likely had some illegal dealings already.”
“So tell the cops,” he said.
“Um, yeah. I tried. They aren’t exactly open to my suggestions,” I said. “Detective Quinn doesn’t think I should be involving myself in the investigation.”
“He’s not exactly wrong about that.”
“Oh, please. Not you, too!” Irritation flared. How was I supposed to find Mavis Templeton’s killer like this? “I’m getting darn sick of people trying to protect me when I’m only trying to help Uncle Ben. And by people, I mean men. The women who know I’m looking into her murder are all very encouraging.”
“Katie …”
“Don’t you ‘Katie’ me. Ben is your friend, your mentor even. How you could walk away from a possible clue is beyond me. But don’t you worry. I’ll take care of talking to Mrs. Templeton’s apartment manager without any help from you.”
His soft sigh drifted through the earpiece. “Oh, for Pete’s sake. All right, I’ll go with you. But I’m busy until six o’clock.”
“That’s fine. Can you pick me up?”
“Your place at six thirty. See you then.”
“Declan?”
“Yeah.” Defeat in his tone.
“Thank you.”
A pause, and then he laughed. “You’re incredibly stubborn. And you’re welcome.”
Nobody seemed to mind Mungo riding around in my tote bag in the hardware store. In fact, while I was selecting a shovel, the guy in the garden department made goo-goo eyes at the terrier as if he were the cutest baby in the world.
Which, come to think of it, maybe he was.
At home, with an hour and a half to kill before Declan came to get me, I changed into grubby clothes. Then I quickly fixed Mungo a snack and grabbed my shiny new shovel. We went out to the backyard, where I stretched my arms wide and inhaled spring deep into my lungs. A heron flapped lazily in the blue above, heading for water.
Walking along the fence line in the backyard, I dropped stakes in a rough outline of the garden area while Mungo delicately ate his poached chicken from a plate on the patio and watched me. I was vaguely aware of the sound of children’s laughter as I rearranged the stakes a few times. Once satisfied, I pounded them all in. Finally, I began cutting the outline of my herb garden from the sod. Mungo, his belly full, trotted over to supervise.
“Whatcha doin’?” Margie called.
I turned, and realized my neighbors could see my garden area from their patio. She and two men were sitting under a ginormous umbrella, sipping from green bottles. Unwilling to bellow back at her, I waved, then dropped my hand as I saw that one of the men was Frank Pullman.
He really did look like Uncle Ben from this far away, especially in the few seconds it took to register his beard and glasses. Was there a killer sitting on my neighbor’s lawn chair, drinking and laughing? What would Pullman have to say to me now? Or had Quinn even talked to him?
“Come on over!” Margie called. “I want you to meet Redding.”
I sighed and looked at Mungo. He licked his lips in concern.
“I’ll come around front, okay?” I said in a loud voice, then murmured to the dog at my feet, “It’ll be okay. You stay here, though.”
Margie launched to her feet and hurried inside.
She was waiting when I came around the corner of her porch, still removing my work gloves. She led me through a living room littered with so many toys you could hardly see the beige wall-to-wall carpet. It looked clean, though, and I could only imagine how hard it was to keep up with the JJs as well as a baby.
Outside, both men stood. I gestured them back into their seats. The JJs waved from their bright plastic play structure, and I waved back. Bart lay sleeping in a playpen on the shaded patio.
“This is my husband, Redding Coopersmith. Say hey to our new neighbor, Katie.”
Tan and blond like his wife, Redding’s crooked smile was wide and friendly. “Hey, neighbor. Margie’s talked a lot about you. Glad to have you here, especially since I’m gone so much these days.”
I leaned forward and shook his hand. “I’ll keep an eye on her, don’t you worry.”
Margie rolled her eyes and turned to Redding’s companion.
But before she could say anything, he said, “Ms. Lightfoot,” with a nod.
I couldn’t read his expression. Of course, the last time I’d seen him, he’d been so giddy about Mrs. Templeton’s being dead that he’d hooted out loud.
“Call me Katie, Mr. Pullman.”
“Oh! You’ve already met Frank?” Margie asked.
“I, uh, sought him out after you told me about his attention to craftsmanship.”
She looked puzzled. “Are you planning to make changes over in that adorable little carriage house?”
“Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a small gazebo in the backyard.”
“I could probably help you with that,” he said.
Uh-oh.
My smile felt like it might split my face. “That’s wonderful! But it might be a while. I’m still getting my feet under me at the bakery, and finances are a little up in the air.”
“You let me know, all right? Looks like I might be able to start working here in Savannah again, now that … well, you know. Margie here will know how to find me.”
“Okay.” All brightness and sunshine.
“Frank here was telling us the cops came to talk to him about that old witch who was murdered,” Redding said.
Old witch, indeed. “Really?” I prompted.
“Wanted to know where he was and who he was with and what he was doing. Can you imagine? Someone treats you like that, then gets herself killed, and the cops have to go bother poor Frank here.”
I kept the smile pasted on my face.
“Oh, it wasn’t such a big deal, Red,” Pullman said. “You know, they have to do their job. I’m just glad she’s gone.” He saw the expression on Margie’s face and quickly look
ed between us. “I am sorry, ladies. And, Katie, you in particular must think I’m a horrible person after my reaction to the news that Mavis Templeton had forcibly met her Maker. I’m afraid intense relief is my only excuse.”
“I think I understand.”
“How about a beer, Katie?” Margie said, gamely trying to change the subject.
“Sure.”
She jumped up and went inside.
“I might not have time to finish it, though,” I called.
She reappeared in the doorway. “I’m afraid you won’t even be able to start it. Your fireman just pulled into your driveway.”
I looked down at my frayed cutoffs and dirty sneakers. “Darn it. He’s early.” I stood. “It was nice to meet you, Redding. I’ll see you around. Frank. Good luck, and I’ll call if I decide on that gazebo.”
As I hurried across the front lawn to where Declan stood on my front porch, I reflected that Detective Quinn must not have told Frank Pullman I was the one who suggested he might have a motive for killing Mrs. Templeton. At least Frank didn’t seem to blame me.
Chapter 20
I changed clothes in a jiffy and told Mungo I’d be home soon. Declan held the truck door open for me, and I could see it was habit and not something he’d been doing to impress me before. Come to think of it, that I was impressed in the first place said a lot more about my previous taste in men than about his good manners.
“What exactly are you planning to ask this Ridge guy?” He buckled his seat belt and backed the truck out of the driveway. The engine rumbled as we took off for the Peachtree Arms.
“I’ve been thinking about that. It would probably be a good idea to come at him sideways, you know? I think we’ll have to play it by ear. Did I did mention he wasn’t very happy when Cookie and I talked to him the other day?”
“No, you didn’t say anything about that. I’m afraid we only discussed me last night. Sorry.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m glad you feel comfortable talking to me.”
He signaled a left turn, a small smile tugging at his lips. “So Ridge didn’t tell you anything when you finally tracked him down?”
“Oh, he talked all right. He just didn’t like us being there,” I fudged.
Declan’s eyes cut my way. “What makes you think he’ll say anything else now?”
He was more right than I liked to admit. A part of me wondered whether Ethan would even remember what he’d told us after Cookie had used her Voice. But that was probably just wishful thinking.
Cookie’s Command had worn thin in a matter of minutes. Mine had lasted for years. Heck, for all I knew those kids were still obeying my Voice. I wasn’t in contact with any of them. Could Cookie have used a diluted version? Were there variations in Voice strength? Could I have somehow reversed my Command to the other children to leave me alone way back then?
Darn it. If Mama and Daddy had given me the proper instruction about what I’d done, I might have been a lot less lonely in school.
Stop it. Feeling sorry for yourself won’t do any good now.
“Tell me about Ridge’s association with Hill,” Declan said.
So I did, relating most of what Mrs. Standish had said verbatim. I finished with, “We can’t know for sure that those two didn’t help with her husband’s cremation like she said. They could have been as sweet and generous and selfless as she seems to think. But having met both of them, I highly doubt it. We could always tell Ethan that Albert blurted out something he shouldn’t have when he came into the bakery and threatened us. See if he takes the bait.”
I had a few other ideas, too, including coming right out and asking the apartment manager about Mrs. Standish. After all, he’d been susceptible to Mrs. Templeton’s blackmail and threats. Maybe he’d respond to mine.
Of course, he might have killed Mrs. Templeton as a result of her machinations. Besides the fact that the Peachtree Arms creeped me out, Ethan Ridge emanated trouble. I was very glad Declan had agreed to come along on this investigative foray, even if I’d had to guilt him into it.
We pulled into the lot and parked close to the building. The late sun cast long blue shadows. Declan pushed the door open, and we paused in the sudden dimness to blink our pupils wide. I started down the hallway as my eyes adjusted, wrinkling my nose at the pungent smell of cooked cabbage. Nearing the manager’s apartment, I saw that the hand-lettered sign on his door had lost a piece of tape on one side and now hung askew.
Then I noticed the door was open a crack.
I stopped across from it and looked up at Declan. He put his hand on my shoulder, a strangely comforting gesture under the circumstances. I rapped on the hollow wood with my knuckles. The report echoed in the silence.
The pressure pushed the door open another six inches.
“Mr. Ridge?” I called. “Ethan?”
No answer. My gaze flicked up to Declan’s as I turned around and knocked on the door across the hall. “Mr. Sparr?”
But James Sparr was apparently out.
“Maybe Ethan is down in the laundry room,” I said. “Maybe he left his door open because he’ll be right back after putting fabric softener in or something.”
Declan gave me a look. Okay, maybe Ethan wasn’t a fabric-softener kind of guy, but how was Declan to know that? He’d never even met the guy.
With one finger he pushed the door open farther. And farther. I clutched the O-shaped amulet around my neck. Now we could see into the apartment, brightly lit by the dying sun. The yellow light angled across liquid spattered on the floor and reflected off shards of glass.
The smears were mostly dry. And red. Very dark red.
Wine?
A hint of copper-and-coffee smell hit me then. I whirled to escape it, covering my nose with one hand.
Not wine.
Blood.
Declan pulled me into his side, shielding my face.
Why? What else was in there? Had I missed a dead body or something? I pushed away and stood fully in the doorway, looking over everything. Two overturned chairs. Pizza boxes and beer cans strewn across the floor. A broken liquor bottle. A dozen half-packed cardboard boxes with the ubiquitous blue truck logo on them.
And blood. Not as much as I’d first thought, but enough.
But no Ethan. I took a deep breath of relief and instantly regretted it. Pungent whiskey fumes had joined the stench. As I recalled, this apartment hadn’t smelled so great when Cookie and I had been there before, but now it was definitely worse.
Declan palmed my shoulder, pulling me back from the doorway. “I’d like to report an accident,” he said into his cell phone. “Or an attack. Don’t know which, only that there’s blood.” He gave the address and our location in a calm and authoritative voice. “We’ll wait outside.”
After he hung up, I said, “Maybe we should look inside his apartment. He could be in the bedroom.” Even if Ethan wasn’t dead, he was likely hurt.
Or someone was.
“No. Leave it to the police.”
This time I didn’t argue.
The patrolmen tromped in first. I hung around in the hallway, staying out of the way while straining to hear what they were saying inside the apartment. From what I could tell, they hadn’t found Ridge or anyone else in the other rooms.
“Ms. Lightfoot?”
I turned to find that Detective Quinn had entered the building from the other end. Sneaky. He didn’t look too happy with me, either.
“What are you doing here?”
My thumb ran over the dragonflies embossed on my amulet, and I cleared my throat. “I came here to talk to Ethan Ridge.”
He considered me for a long moment. But instead of yelling at me, he asked, “Why?”
“Because you wouldn’t listen to what I had to say on the phone. I found out that he and Mavis Templeton’s nephew had a history. Possibly an unsavory one. Ridge was in jail for assault and fraud.”
Irritation flitted across his face before he tamped it down. “We are aware of that, Ms
. Lightfoot.”
“Of course. But did you know Ethan’s pulling some of the same tricks he was before he was convicted? At least I think he might be. And he’s doing it with the help of Albert Hill.”
Quinn was silent for a moment, then looked around at the gathering tenants. He beckoned to me. “Come with me.”
I followed him out to a nondescript gray Chevy. He opened the door, and I got in. Was he arresting me? But he only started the engine, turned the air conditioner on full blast and twisted in his seat to look at me.
“Okay. I’m sorry I didn’t listen. Tell me what you found out.”
“Ethan Ridge and Albert Hill arranged a cremation for the husband of a Honeybee customer. A Mrs. Standish.”
“So?”
“So she paid Albert directly, and he paid the mortuary. Or the crematorium. I’m not sure how it worked.”
“And?”
“Well, Ethan does have a history of selling burial plots that don’t exist.”
He made a note. “I’ll talk to Mrs. Standish and see if there was anything hinky about what they did.”
I waved my hand dismissively. “She thinks they walk on water. The point is they knew each other.”
Quinn sat back and regarded me. In the light of the setting sun I saw the dark half-moons under his gray eyes, took in the slumped shoulders and day-old stubble. This guy was in dire need of one of Lucy’s seven-layer bars.
“You do realize that might not mean a thing,” he said. “People know each other in Savannah. Hill will inherit the Peachtree Arms, and now Ridge will work for him. I know Mrs. Standish, and I knew her husband, Harry. I went to his service, the one you say the nephew arranged. And I’ve met Albert Hill before, as well as his aunt.”
I protested. “Even if everything they did was on the up-and-up, it still proves that Albert Hill and Ethan Ridge were friends and/or business partners at least a year ago. Add in that Ethan had a history of violence, wanted to get away from the crappy job Mrs. Templeton had blackmailed him into, and Albert Hill gets a pile of money now that his aunt is dead. At the very least you’ve got somebody to investigate other than Benjamin Eagel.”
