by Anne Canadeo
“Let’s see.” Lucy opened the brown envelope and took out a small brass key, etched with the number twenty-three. “Looks like a key to a safety deposit box? Or a box at the post office?”
“My money is on a bank. She probably has something important stored there. Something she wanted to preserve in case anything happened to her.”
Lucy nodded. “I agree. But how can we find out what that is? We can’t just waltz into every bank in town and pretend to be Liza Devereaux.”
“No, you can’t. Thank goodness for small favors.”
They both heard the voice at once. Maggie nearly jumped out of her skin and caught herself from shrieking, just in time. She turned to find Kira standing in the doorway. She held Emma in her arms in a protective embrace.
“What in the world are you doing here? Who let you in? This is just . . . outrageous.”
Maggie cleared her throat and tried to stand tall. “I’m sorry we scared you. Your mother gave us the key. She said you were away.”
“I came back.”
“She promised to let you know we were coming over,” Lucy said.
“I haven’t heard a word from her. Why would she let you come here in the first place? Looking through my sisters things? Isn’t it enough that someone killed her? That woman, from her office. The zaftig one with the dark hair . . . your friend. I saw you together at the church. And I know the police took her away right after.”
Maggie cringed for Suzanne’s sake. She’d hate to be called zaftig even more than being thought a murderer. Maggie stepped forward, willing to take some heat.
“Suzanne is our friend. But she didn’t kill your sister. We were hoping to find some small clue or shred of evidence that will prove that to the police.”
“Or at least, make them look in a new direction.” Lucy held out the key. “She hid this behind a photo. It looks like the key to a safety deposit box.”
“We thought it might hold a clue to her murder,” Maggie added. “There must be a good reason why she hid it.”
Kira stared at the key. Emma was squirming and she let her down on Liza’s bed. “Liza was secretive. I’m not surprised she hid a key. She had a lot of jewelry. That’s what she probably kept at the bank.”
Maggie thought that might be true. Just because they hoped for some breakthrough hidden in the box, it didn’t necessarily mean it was there.
Across the room, Maggie saw Emma had crawled toward the pillows and grabbed the stuffed bears, making them talk to each other. Or maybe the big bear was taking care of the little one? Cuddling it?
Lucy seemed about to say something more. But Kira stepped to the door and pulled it open as wide as it would go. “Get out of here. Before I call the police.”
That was enough for Maggie. More than enough. “We’re leaving. Absolutely. Right this minute.”
She started out of the room, glancing back to make sure Lucy had followed. “We truly meant no harm.”
“We probably shouldn’t have come, but your mother wanted to help us. She suggested it,” Lucy insisted as she started down the stairs behind Maggie.
“My mother’s not well. The illness affects her mind. You took advantage of her, a grief-struck old woman. I think I’ll call the police anyway. You should expect a visit from them.”
Maggie didn’t answer. She knew nothing she could say would help and part of her didn’t even blame Kira for being angry.
Lucy was more optimistic. “Well, good night. Sorry again . . . By the way, your artwork is very interesting.”
“Get out of here! Now!” Kira had followed them to the landing and shouted over the balcony.
Maggie thought she heard the crystals in the light fixture quiver but she didn’t wait to find out for sure.
“And you’d better leave that key!”
“It’s on the side table in the foyer. We had no intention of keeping it,” Maggie called back as she headed out the front door. Lucy followed close behind and quickly slammed the door shut.
They hustled off the porch, down the path, and climbed in Maggie’s car.
Maggie didn’t pause to clip her seat belt or even take a breath. She started the car and pulled down the street, tires screeching, afraid that they would soon hear sirens and never make it home tonight.
“Maggie, slow down. No one’s chasing us.”
“Not yet.” Maggie turned to Lucy. “She was very upset. I think she will call the police.”
“Maybe she’ll call her mother first, to check our story, and Ruth will talk her out of it. It’s still Ruth’s house and it was her idea for us to go there.”
“Kira obviously doesn’t see it that way.”
“Obviously. But she would have never known about that key if we hadn’t found it.”
“Don’t expect a thank you card. I wonder what she’ll find in the box. Just jewelry?”
“She’ll never tell us. But maybe Ruth will?”
Maggie hadn’t thought about that. “Wait . . . you never showed her the note.”
“Oh blast. I forgot. All that yelling. She distracted me.”
Maggie had been distracted, too. “We can’t just give it to the police. They’ll ask where we found it.”
“I know. But the police should know someone was harassing Liza.” Lucy turned to Maggie. “Let’s think about it. Maybe Dana or Suzanne will have an idea.”
Chapter 9
Suzanne had not left the house except for dire emergencies, like picking up Ryan after his fight at school Monday morning. Two days housebound would not bother most people. But Suzanne was used to being in constant motion, moving from one task to the next on her to-do list. She felt trapped in the house, hiding out from reporters who lingered, hoping to catch an interview or a photo. And trapped by her own reluctance to show her face in the village, knowing that everyone was talking about her.
By Wednesday, she was not only restless but nearly screamed after Kevin replaced a few blown lightbulbs in the bathroom fixture, and she saw the true and unsightly state of her hair. Not to mention her eyebrows. But she had learned from bitter experience—never, ever pluck during times of distress. A foolproof formula for disaster.
Put the tweezer down and step away from the mirror, Suzanne. No one will get hurt.
But professional eyebrow aid right now would be tricky. There was always a long wait at Sonya’s Brow Bar. She didn’t want to run into a crowd there. Hair was the priority. She needed a cut and blow out, immediately.
She normally visited the salon at least once a week, convinced that the cost was a valid business expense. Though the accountant who did her taxes did not agree. She couldn’t see why not; she definitely sold more houses when she looked and felt her best. No question about that.
Fearful of reporters, Suzanne planned her escape carefully. Her hairdresser, Jillian, was able to fit her in for a red-eye appointment at half past seven. The salon was just down the street from Maggie’s shop and her friends planned to meet there at nine.
Maggie and Lucy had been so cryptic in their messages last night, Suzanne couldn’t tell what had gone on during their visit with Ruth Devereaux. She was dying to hear if Ruth had told them anything that would help her sticky situation. But she’d have to wait a little longer to find out.
Suzanne slipped into the salon right on time, relieved to see it was practically empty, except for Jillian and the girl at the shampoo sink. After a quick wash, she sat back in the big chair at Jillian’s station, feeling cozy under the black silky drape as the chair was pumped up. Jillian had been her hairstylist for nearly ten years. Suzanne thought of her as a friend and practically a therapist. One who got to the point quickly.
Jillian glided a big comb through Suzanne’s wet hair. “I can’t believe what you’ve been going through. The police in this town are totally nuts. Give me a break, okay?”
“It’s been rough,” Suzanne admitted. “I feel so bad for my family. Especially the kids.”
“I’ll bet. It’s awful about Liza Devereaux.
Don’t get me wrong. What a way to go. She used to come in here once in a while. I never did her hair but I knew who she was. But for the police to say that you did it? That’s just insane.”
“Thanks, Jillian. The last few days have been a nightmare.”
“You poor thing. Do you have a good lawyer?”
“Helen Forbes. She’s great.” But even the sharpest lawyer in the world can’t make evidence disappear, Suzanne wanted to say. Or make the police leave you alone if they’re intent on pinning you for a crime.
“Good for you. That’s the whole game.” Jillian pinned up a chunk of hair and began to snip. “What are we doing today? Just a trim?”
“At least an inch. Nice blunt cut.”
“You got it.” Suzanne watched her in the mirror, her intent game face as she handled the scissors.
“Thanks for seeing me so early.”
“No problem.” Jillian shrugged, her gaze fixed on Suzanne’s hair. “I don’t mind the early shift. I get out at two and save on sitters.”
“Nice.” Suzanne saw the photos of Jillian’s children, a girl and a boy, elementary school age, tucked in the rim of the mirror. She was about to ask about them, when Jillian turned sharply toward the door.
Suzanne followed her gaze. It was Beth Birney, from her office.
“I didn’t know Beth Birney comes here. Is she your client?”
“I thought she was. A real regular. Until she went MIA and I caught her walking out of Hair Spa. I hear she’s there every day for a wash and blow out.”
Hair Spa was a new, hip salon down the street that touted cutting edge, organic products and sleek, high-tech equipment. Suzanne had heard the hair dryers merely hummed, and their specialty, a hot coconut oil hair wrap, reportedly left your hair smooth and silky for weeks.
Beth’s hair had been looking extra shiny and coiffed lately. No wonder.
“Every day at Hair Spa? There’s a pricey routine,” Suzanne said. “But she did tell me she’s trying to . . . socialize more.”
“Good for her. But that place is a rip-off. Hot air is hot air. And I can smash a coconut on your head, if that makes you feel better.”
Suzanne smiled. “That’s okay. I had some fruit with breakfast.”
Jillian shrugged. “I guess the Spa is booked and we’re sloppy seconds. I hope she isn’t scheduled with me. She’s a really cheap tipper. I am so done with that, know what I mean?”
Suzanne didn’t know what to say. She liked Beth but didn’t doubt the bookkeeper was sparing with gratuities. Gossip was always part of the beauty treatment at Jillian’s station.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.... Have people been talking about me, Jillian?” she asked in a small voice.
The hairdresser met her gaze in the mirror. She’d finished the cut and smoothed a lotion over Suzanne’s damp strands.
“Not really.” Suzanne could tell she wasn’t being entirely honest. “There are always a few who love to get nasty. Who cares? By next week, people will be talking about someone else—a face-lift or a divorce. You’ll be old news in no time.”
Suzanne tried to take some comfort in the reply. Old news because the police had found out who really killed Liza, she hoped.
“The best revenge is looking good. We’ve got that covered,” Jillian promised.
“Absolutely.” Suzanne’s reply was drowned out in the hair dryer’s mighty roar.
When Suzanne’s hair was finished, Jillian spun the chair to show her the style from every angle.
“You’re an artist. I’m a new woman.” Suzanne slipped an extra generous tip under the brush on the countertop. “Thanks so much. See you soon.”
Jillian leaned over and gave her a hug. The pleasant scent of hair products filled Suzanne’s head. “Hang in there. This is all going to work out for you. I know it.”
“Thanks. I know it will, too.” Suzanne was determined not to voice any doubt.
She headed to the front desk to settle her bill, passing Beth, who was already in a chair, discussing her hair needs with a stylist.
Suzanne smiled and offered a small wave, hoping to scoot by without conversation. But Beth jumped up from her seat, the black salon covering flapping as she ran over and smothered Suzanne in a hug.
“Suzanne . . . you poor thing. How are you holding up? How’s everyone at home?”
Suzanne’s body stiffened, startled by the greeting. She wasn’t sure if she felt grateful for the exuberant concern. Or insulted by all the sympathy. Beth had to think she was guilty—or at least, in very deep trouble—if she felt that bad. Did everyone in the office feel that way?
“I’m good. We’re all fine.” Suzanne forced a bright smile. “Keeping busy. Harry told me to work from home.”
“I know. We discussed it. You need to be with your family now. This is a challenging time.”
“It is,” Suzanne conceded.
“It will all be over soon.” Beth patted her hand but didn’t smile. Suzanne thought she could have. In a quieter voice, she added, “You’ll get your usual check this week. Don’t worry.”
Suzanne had hoped that would be the case when Harry told her to stay home, but she’d been too stressed to ask.
“That’s good news, thanks.”
“I told Harry, ‘It’s the right thing to do.’ ” Beth gave her a meaningful look and Suzanne knew the office manager had been her champion. Then Beth said, “Innocent until proven guilty, right?”
Suzanne’s smile froze. “That’s what they tell me.” She pulled away from Beth’s cloying grasp. “Nice to see you, Beth. Have a good hairdo.”
“You take care. I’ll be in touch.” Beth squeezed Suzanne’s arm again, then trotted back to her hairdresser. Suzanne paid her bill and grabbed her coat off the rack.
She buttoned the black trench coat to her chin and flipped up the collar, but stuck the baseball cap in her purse. The dark glasses would have to suffice. No sense ruining her hairstyle, which had not come cheap.
She looked through the salon’s glass door and checked the street twice, in both directions. No signs of stalking reporters or TV news vans. Suzanne didn’t entirely trust that was true, but decided to make a run for it. She swung open the door and did a speed walk down the street, her head ducked down, her gaze constantly scanning.
She reached the knitting shop and pulled the door open, then jumped inside and let out a long, relieved breath.
Maggie and Phoebe stood behind the counter. Lucy sat on the love seat nearby, already knitting. “Hey, Suzanne . . . Are you okay?”
Maggie looked concerned, too. “Was someone chasing you again?”
“Let’s put it this way: just because you can’t see them, it doesn’t mean they’re not there. Trust me on this.” She knew she sounded crazy, but it was true.
“You didn’t have to trouble yourself. We would have come to your place again,” Maggie reminded her.
“That’s all right. I had to get out. House arrest was getting to me.”
And, sitting there all day alone, imagining how much worse it would be if I was in jail for real. The worst case scenario was never far from her thoughts lately, hovering like a dark cloud, but Suzanne forced a smile. She didn’t want to start the visit on that note.
She slipped off her raincoat and took a seat in an armchair next to Lucy.
“It was worth the risk. Your hair looks great,” Phoebe gave her a thumbs up, the magenta streak in her own dark hair catching the light.
“Thanks. Looking good is the best revenge. My hairdresser told me that.”
“It’s true.” Lucy was almost done with the yellow baby jacket. Suzanne knew she could have been knitting while sitting at home the past few days. It would have done her good to feel productive, and even relieved some stress. She had tried but hadn’t been able to concentrate.
“I hope it’s some revenge. Even if it isn’t the absolute best. I was just totally dissed by a coworker. Beth Birney, the office manager. She’s usually so nice. She ac
ted all sympathetic and supportive. But I’m sure she thinks I did it. I bet they all do.”
“That’s not right. Sounds to me like any one of them could have been framed with Liza’s murder, instead of you,” Lucy insisted.
“That’s true, Lucy. Too bad for me I was the lucky winner.” Before Suzanne could say more, the door swung open and Dana came in. “Sorry I’m late. Did I miss anything?”
“Suzanne just got here. People in her office think she’s guilty,” Maggie said.
“I’m not surprised. People are so quick to judge,” Dana said. “It’s up to us to show them that they’re wrong.”
Suzanne smiled a thank-you. Dana wore a maize-colored shawl she’d knit for herself last fall and pushed it aside as she sat next to Lucy on the love seat. Suzanne had always admired the shawl, though she would have chosen a brighter color than the mild wheat color, which seemed to be Dana’s signature.
“Let’s show them all. The sooner the better.” Suzanne turned to Maggie. “Did Ruth tell you anything that would help me? I hope, I hope?”
She wanted to hear the whole story, but needed the punch line first.
“A mixed bag, I’d have to say,” Maggie replied. “She hates Nick Sutton. We already knew that. She said he pulled Liza down, ruined her opportunities. She said he was desperate for money and made a claim for Liza’s estate as soon as she died. That’s why she was so enraged to see him at the memorial.”
“He had some nerve to go there, all things considered,” Dana said as she took out her knitting and put on her reading glasses.
“We suspected that. But it was good to hear Ruth confirm it,” Lucy pointed out. “I’ve been thinking, what if there was some way to prove he came to the office to ask her for money last week and she refused? The police would have to admit he had clear motive to kill her.”
“I found out something about him, too.” Dana had taken out her knitting but hadn’t started working yet. “Jack asked around about Sutton for us. Turns out, in addition to being a gambler, he’s recently gotten into loan sharking. Helping his down and out gambler friends, I guess. At less than friendly interest rates.”
