Chapter Twenty-Three
On my way home I’d bought another batch of ingredients for the chicken marsala. And some wine to drink while I was cooking it. After I put away the groceries, I called Carol. “I have questions for you. And I have some news.” I hadn’t told her about Mike moving in next door.
“Do you feel like braving the cold? I’m at my shop.”
“I have to go out anyway to work at a client’s house. I’ll stop by to see you first.”
“Great,” Carol said. “A class just left and I’m cleaning up.”
I drove over since I had to go to the Blevinses’ house next. This time of year I missed coastal California where the temperature was mild most of the year. It was a rare day when anyone broke out parkas, scarves, and gloves. Even if they did it was because it was fifty degrees. I hustled into the shop.
“Mind helping me wash paintbrushes while we talk?”
“Not at all.” We stood by a sink, the soft oily smell of paint wafting around us.
“What’s the news?” Carol asked.
“Mike Titone is living next door to me again.”
“Not again.” Carol paused, holding a set of paintbrushes midair. “Why?”
By the time I finished telling her about the spontaneous fondue party, she was laughing so hard she almost choked. I was laughing because she was. Not to mention it was a wonderful relief after my very depressing talks with Becky and Walter.
“I’m not sure I like the idea of him living right next to you if someone is after him,” Carol said.
“I know. That went through my mind too. But with his brothers and men around I’m safer than normal.” I hoped I was anyway.
“I guess so. You said you wanted to ask me something.”
“Do you have any contact with the base PTA anymore?” Carol’s kids had gone to school on base until they moved to Ellington two years ago. The base had a school that went from kindergarten through eighth grade. Then the students transferred to Ellington High School. Not all bases had schools and some had been closed down. The government paid the school district for each kid who attended a town’s local schools. Most towns were eager to have them.
“One of my friends is still part of the PTA. I think she’s their treasurer. Why?”
I couldn’t ask questions without having to answer some too. “It has to do with Alicia’s death. Someone mentioned that Alicia was involved with the base PTA.”
Carol gave me a long look. “You investigating Alicia’s death is worse than having Mike next door to you.”
Carol might be right. “I wouldn’t call it investigating.”
“What would you call it? Snooping? Poking your nose in some murderer’s business? An inquiry?”
“I’d call it helping a friend.” I raised a hand as Carol opened her mouth. “I can’t say who. But someone I know has been implicated in Alicia’s death. She asked me for help.”
Carol stood still for a moment then nodded. “You were there for me when I was accused. I guess I can’t begrudge you helping someone else.”
“Thank you.” We continued washing brushes.
“I didn’t ever meet Alicia, since she was so new to base. But I did hear things about her.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“My friend on the board thought she was a bit of a social climber. That she only took positions that would up her profile and maybe her husband’s. However, being president of the PTA is a thankless job that she took when no one else wanted it.”
“It sounds like Alicia was a complex woman and a very hard worker.”
Carol nodded. “Do you think it was someone who was jealous of Alicia?”
I couldn’t mention Becky’s possible divorce, not even to Carol, who I trusted with almost all my secrets. “It’s possible, but there are all kinds of other reasons out there too.” I glanced at the clock on Carol’s wall. It looked like a paint palette and the hands were paintbrushes. “I have to go.”
“I’ll call you if I think of anything else I’ve heard about Alicia. I worry about you working over at your client’s house alone even though Jeannette put in a new security system.”
“I hired a woman from base so I’m not alone. But it’s a big project and I could use someone else. Can you think of anyone who wants some part-time work?”
Carol scrunched up her face and then relaxed it. “My neighbors’ aunt is here for an extended visit. My poor neighbor broke her shoulder and hip all on the same side. It’s hard for her because she can’t get around easily. She appreciates that her aunt came to help, but would like a little alone time. Do you want me to check with her?”
I did some quick calculations in my head. Carol’s neighbor had to be in her sixties. That meant her aunt had to be in her eighties. Beggars. Choosers. And I didn’t want to be ageist. “Sure. It sounds like a win-win. More help for me and some free time for your neighbor.”
Carol nodded. “Thanks for helping me clean the brushes.”
“Any time,” I said as I bundled back up.
“Tomorrow at ten then?” Carol laughed.
I shook my head and braced for another wintry blast.
* * *
My phone rang as I pulled into Jeannette’s drive at one forty-five. Becky.
“I’ve been racking my brain since you left,” Becky said. “To see if there was anything that might be significant.”
“That’s good. Did you come up with anything?” I left my Suburban running with the seat warmer on. A nap sounded good. It had been an emotional morning talking to Becky and Walter. Talking to Awesome hadn’t been easy either.
“Two things. The whole argument with Alicia started because Ginger was trying to ask Cindy, the treasurer, a question about her report.”
“How much money does Cindy have control of?” Usually Spouses’ Clubs were notoriously underfunded, so any money they had would be negligible.
“Our coffers are brimming over. We’ve already had our big fundraiser auction, and the cookbook we put out last fall was wildly successful. We’ve done three printings so far.”
It was nice to hear the happy note in Becky’s voice, the pride. “What’s the money going to be used for?”
“Most of it will go to scholarships. But the good we can do with the rest of it is almost endless. We loved that you raised enough money to fly that dog over from Afghanistan last fall. It inspired us to help service members with PTSD.”
That was all wonderful news, but it didn’t add up to who killed Alicia. “But why would Cindy kill Alicia? They were friends.”
“I said they were friendly not best buddies. What if Alicia found out the numbers were off? That maybe Cindy had been stealing from the coffers.”
People had been murdered for a lot less. “Okay, I’ll add her to the list.” The problem was, I couldn’t ask Alicia what had been going on with her and Cindy. Someone had robbed Alicia of her ability to do that. I turned off my car, got out, and paced.
“There’s more. I hate to say it because no one wants to speak ill of the dead.” Becky’s voice sounded hesitant.
“I get that, but this is about you. Your freedom.”
Becky gasped.
“I’m sorry to be so blunt,” I said.
“It’s okay. I knew when I asked you to help that this wasn’t some mystery kids kind of game. It’s my life.”
I wanted to say So spit it out. I’d been up and down the driveway ten times by now. I bet I looked like a lunatic. And my toes were cold. I looked at the house. It hunkered down, dark and low under heavy clouds. I didn’t want to go in, and at the same time I was mad at myself for feeling that way. I shook myself either from fear or a weak attempt at warming up. I hoped Carol’s neighbor’s aunt would be able to help. Even if she was older and couldn’t do much the companionship would be worth the money.
“Alicia and a man who was in the Spouses’ Club were very close.”
“Who?” I asked.
“His real name is Ed Flowers, but everyone call
s him Channing because he looks like that actor who was in those male stripper movies.”
Why hadn’t I heard about this guy before? Usually if there was someone hot around, everyone knew. This was just another reminder that my life was becoming more and more disconnected from the base. “Are there rumors about them?”
Becky stayed quiet for a moment. “Yes.” It sounded like it pained her to say it. “And his wife is rumored to have a terrible temper.”
“How long have the rumors been going around?” I asked. I beeped the locks closed on my Suburban. I had to go in and warm up. That and I had a ton of work to do.
“Walter and Ed’s wife were both deployed at the same time. They both got back about a month ago. I heard Walter came back from his deployment earlier than he was supposed to.”
“You think the rumors had anything to do with it?”
“Rumors wouldn’t be enough to bring someone home early.”
I let that settle over me as I unlocked the door to the Blevinses’ house. It was cold in here too, or it was just my mood. “Okay. I’ll see what I can find out.” I turned off the alarm system as we hung up. Then I headed for the thermostat hoping something Becky had said would spark an idea of how to help her.
* * *
“I’m not afraid to be here alone. I’m not afraid to be here alone,” I chanted as I turned up the thermostat. But I was. After seeing Fake Troy last night and knowing he was still around, I was more jittery than I’d admitted to Seth when we talked this morning.
“You’re a big, strong, independent woman.” Yeah, one who’s talking to herself like a looney tune. For now I was going to have to set aside Becky’s problems while I focused on working here.
I decided to take a few minutes and look at the office again before I went back to tackle more of the kitchen items. Maybe facing the office first thing would ease my fears. Maybe Fake Troy had fled the area after seeing me last night. That might be wishful thinking, but I’d go with it. This time I looked behind pictures and certificates that lined the walls in the office. Maybe there was a safe or hidey-hole behind one of them. Or maybe a note or key would be taped to the back—a note or key that Fake Troy was looking for. After fifteen minutes I’d found a dead spider, a lot of dust, and some cobwebs. Nothing more interesting than that.
My phone binged a text message from an unknown number. The message read: This is Harriet Ballou. My niece lives by your friend Carol. I hear you need help. Text me the address and I will swing by and see if we can work together.
Interesting. I’d wondered how old Carol’s neighbor’s aunt was. Not too old to text was my only answer. I sent the address and got a message back saying she’d arrive in fifteen minutes.
I returned to the kitchen. The house was so quiet I couldn’t take it any longer. I turned on an old radio that sat on the counter. There was a lot of static but I finally managed to find a country station that came in fairly well. I kept the volume down so I could listen for sounds of intruders and/or Harriet’s arrival. While the security system provided some comfort, it didn’t cover all the windows. I sang along when I knew a song, putting on my best fake country drawl.
Jeannette’s parents had been big fans of all kinds of kitchenware. But at least it was all fairly good quality and not reused margarine tubs. I found a shelf full of different sizes of cast-iron skillets. From a little bitty one that you could cook a single egg in to one that was at least fifteen inches across and weighed about a ton. Heirloom quality cast-iron cookware was always popular and hard to find at garage sale prices.
One of the pieces looked kind of dirty, so I decided to wash it. Yes, I was a full service, do-it-all business. I ran some hot water and found some old dishwashing soap under the sink. Just as I was ready to pour it in, a little thought niggled into my head. I had a feeling that there were very specific ways to clean cast iron. I set the soap down, turned off the water, and did a quick search online.
The recommended cleaning method was to make a paste out of kosher salt and water. I dug around, found some salt, made a paste, and scrubbed away, rinsing well with hot water. It didn’t seem all that sanitary, but according to the directions any other kind of cleanser would damage the seasoning—whatever that was.
After I dried that pan, I priced them, and then put them back in the cupboard for now. The day of the sale I’d put most of the kitchen items on the counter and kitchen table. But I needed the space for pricing until then.
The doorbell rang and my phone binged at the same time. The message was from Harriet. “I’m here” was all it said.
I trotted to the door, opened it, and stared. “Harriet?” I asked. A tall, slender woman stood in front of me with light brown hair streaked with a bit of gray. It almost looked like she’d had it done like that. Maybe she had. Harriet was much younger than I was expecting considering the age of her aunt. She looked to be in her mid-sixties.
“Are we just going to stand here in the cold staring at each other?” Harriet asked.
“No. No. Come in. Sorry. I’m Sarah.”
Harriet stepped in. Her well-worn motorcycle boots clumped on the tile as I closed the door. She whipped off a sporty-looking black quilted jacket which exposed a very fit figure encased in a black T-shirt and jeans. I stuck out my hand to shake and was grasped in a firm but brief clasp. My mind reeled as I tried to readjust to the Harriet who stood before me and the elderly, plumb woman I’d pictured.
She tilted her head which highlighted her high cheekbones. “You were expecting me?” Her eye shadow gave her eyes the smoky look that I tried to achieve and usually failed at.
“Yes. It’s just that I . . .” What did I say without putting my foot in my mouth? “Carol said you were her neighbor’s aunt and I . . .” Harriet was going to think I was a blithering idiot.
She smiled. “My oldest sibling is twenty years older than me as are most of my nieces and nephews. We have an upside down family. So I’m younger than most of my nieces and nephews.”
“Ah, that solves that then.” I led Harriet to the kitchen. She flung her coat over one of the chairs at the table.
I quickly explained how much I could pay her and she didn’t object. “I do need to tell you what happened here and will understand if you prefer not to work here.”
“I’m aware,” Harriet said. “My niece gets the paper and I read about the incident.”
“The man is still in town and could be a threat.”
“And you know this how?” she asked.
I explained my run-in with Fake Troy last night.
“Did he seem like a threat?”
I thought that over. “He seemed to be a little afraid of me. Or maybe just startled.”
“You will have to be on your guard until he’s caught in that case,” Harriet said. “What do you want me to do?”
I was starting to wonder if Harriet’s arrival was some elaborate scheme by Seth and Carol so I would have an assistant who would double as a bodyguard. She looked like she could kick butt and take names without a thought. And she certainly didn’t seem like someone who needed a part-time job.
“Why are you here?” I asked. Might as well get it out there instead of wondering.
Harriet laughed. “Because I’m driving my niece crazy. I’m not good at sitting still and I’ve already alphabetized her spices, organized her linen closet, and dusted every surface in the house. Why do you think I was here?”
“Knowing my friends they think I need a bodyguard.”
“Then you have good friends. You’re lucky.”
I was. It made me wonder about her life, but I didn’t get a vibe that she wanted to be asked. “Let’s get to work then. Have you ever priced things for a sale like this one?”
“Never. But I’m a quick learner. Where do you want me? It certainly seems like there’s plenty to do.”
I decided, like I had with Zoey, that clothes would be easiest and took her to the bedroom. After a few minutes of instruction, I left her to it and returned to the
kitchen. I found a shelf with five different sets of vintage canisters. Oh, and they were beauties. At least most of them were. One of the sets was just like one my grandmother had. They were red plastic with white boxy letters that said—flour, sugar, coffee, tea. The lids were white. There was a round metal set with pictures of fruit painted on them. These provided no instructions as to what was to go inside—woe to the person who had to make that decision on their own. There was also a turquoise set that I loved but had no space for. Then some really old, ornate glass ones and a regrettable avocado green set. However, knowing how trends circled back around, before I knew it someone would be getting nostalgic about avocado green things. I shook my head at the thought. But the rest of them—I sighed happily—what fun. Collectors would go gaga for them.
I checked each one to make sure they were empty and clean. Since not all of them were, this time I filled the sink with soapy water and washed out the traces of flour and sugar. The flour container of the avocado green set was filled to the brim with flour. Old flour with what looked like a bug or two in it. I dumped it into the trash can. A piece of floury paper was stuck inside the bottom of the canister. What was that?
Chapter Twenty-Four
I fished the piece of paper out picking it up by the corner. It had a series of numbers on it that meant nothing to me. Maybe they would mean something to Jeannette, so I called her. It dawned on me what the numbers were, as I explained to Jeannette what I’d found.
“I think it’s a combination for a lock,” I told her.
“Why would it be in the flour canister?” Jeannette asked.
I didn’t answer because I thought she was musing instead of really asking. “Do you recognize the numbers?”
“It’s a combination of our birthdays and my parents’ anniversary.”
“Not very secure,” I said.
“Not in this day and age. But it might have seemed like it whenever it was written.”
Frankly, I assumed CIA people were smarter than that, even back in the day. So whatever this was, it wasn’t a combination to anything too important. For that matter, the flour canister wasn’t that secure of a hiding place.
Sell Low, Sweet Harriet Page 13
