A Body in the Bargain: A Kate & Kylie Mystery

by Charlotte Moore

  “That’s an old cast iron doorstop,” she said, pushing a wheelbarrow out of the way and rearranging a few things. “One of the few old things I have. It’s been in my family for years. I thought our old bunny looked so much happier with a coat of paint.”

  I told her that Kylie and I had been busy painting things, too and that seeing her wicker furniture made me want some for our front porch.

  She posed in a sun hat with the trophy in her hand, and looked quite the Southern lady, with just a small smile of pride. Jade stood beside her, beaming. It was absolutely posed, and nothing like my great picture of the handcuffed and ferocious Doris Dabney. I was pretty sure it was just what Josh Miller wanted.

  I had just left Camelot Court when Daniel O’Reilly called.

  He didn’t mention my taking the photos of the Dabneys, but just said, “I can see you in twenty minutes.”

  I said, “I’ll be there.”

  Actually, I was there in ten minutes and waited for fifteen, before he came out of his office and nodded to me.

  “Okay,” he said with a sigh when I was seated in his office. “Here’s the deal. I’m going to have a media advisory with some other folks tomorrow morning, but I know that’s too late for The Register. I’ll give you the short version first, and then you can ask questions, but I may not answer all of them.”

  I sat up straight with my notebook.

  “We arrested Doris Dabney this morning on a charge of conspiracy to obstruct a police investigation and felony perjury,” he said. “That basically means that she paid someone to lie to us regarding her son’s alibi. There may be other charges.”

  “She paid Mary Jane Pendleton?” I asked.

  He looked surprised that I knew the name.

  “Off the record?” he asked.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Well, what could I say? If I said “No,” he might just stop talking. My vision of myself as a crime reporter was fraying around the edges.

  “Her parents brought her in, and part of the deal was that we’re not pressing charges against her,” he said. “The girl’s gotten into some prescription drug abuse, and Doris Dabney conned her into telling us that she was with David Dabney when she wasn’t. She was at home in her bed by midnight. Her parents brought her in yesterday, and she told us Doris Dabney took her out to their house at the lake and gave her some pills that she found in David’s backpack, and a hundred dollars and talked her into lying and saying she spent the night with David.”

  “So do you know where David really was?” I asked.

  “As far as I know he really was at home all night,” Daniel said with a shrug. “He never said anything else until after Mary Jane showed up. That’s when he said he didn’t tell us because she was a nice girl and he didn’t want her embarrassed. I think his mother and Shelton Squires set him up to do that.”

  “And now,” he said, “We’ve got him back.”

  “So what’s he charged with?” I asked. “Is he charged with Miss Merkle’s murder?”

  “No. We don’t have enough evidence to make that charge, but he’s in plenty of trouble. He’s charged with the same thing his mother is charged with, plus possession of illegally obtained prescription drugs with intent to sell.”

  “I’m not real sure now what I can say and not say,” I said.

  “Well, I’m getting a press release typed up, and we can send it to your e-mail. I just wanted to ask you a favor.”

  “Not to use the photos I took? Well, don’t worry because…”

  He waved that away. “No. I don’t care about that. Just see if you and Josh can give Mary Jane Pendleton a break because she did the right thing and she’s kind of messed-up right now.”

  “Okay,” I said, knowing perfectly well that Josh would be more than willing not to offend the Pendletons since Mr. Pendleton’s bank was an advertiser.

  “And another thing—well this is advice, I guess—the other thing is that these arrests don’t mean that we’re any closer to charging David Dabney with the murder of Meredith Merkle than we were before. It may just be that his mother went a little crazy because she believed he did it. She wound up making things worse for him.”

  I was almost at the door when I remembered Eddie Robuck and told Daniel what he had said.

  He listened intently.

  “That’s a real help,” he said scribbling down the name. “I’ll go out and talk to him myself.”

  I stopped again and said, “Could I ask you something that’s not for the paper? I mean I’m just curious about something?”

  “What?”

  “Do you know when she died?”

  “Yeah, approximately.”

  I waited.

  “Sometime between six p.m. and nine p.m. on Monday,” he said. “She was dead several hours before her body was hidden in the sofa.”

  Chapter 12

  I was now really on deadline. I stopped by the Big Star market for the kind of food I always want on hand when I have writing to do: junk. I might not eat it all, but I like knowing that I have chips, dip, microwave popcorn, and a couple of candy bars on hand.

  At home, I wrote the Camelot Court story first, keeping it down to 500 words, mentioning all the names I could and attaching four photographs with cutlines. The one of Maxie Lewis was quite nice, but there was another group picture that spread the attention around better. I numbered them in order of priority. I hoped the pictures could be in color, but in any case, it looked to me as if Josh could fill at least half a page with it, so that should make him happy.

  Then I wrote and rewrote the story about the Dabney arrests with some background on the murder. I took a break for chips and dip and wrote it over again.

  I had e-mailed the Camelot Court story to the paper as soon as I finished it, but I decided to re-read the Dabney arrest story in the morning. I set my alarm and I went to bed.

  I had got to the point in “Emma” where she learns about Frank Churchill being secretly engaged to Jane Fairfax when I got out of bed, microwaved a bag of popcorn and wrote the story one more time.

  Then I e-mailed it, knowing that until I had sent it, I would keep fidgeting with it.

  I turned the alarm off and fell asleep almost as soon as my head touched my pillow.

  Josh called a little after eight and said. “Thanks! The story’s great.”

  I yawned and asked, “Which one?”

  “Which one? The one about the Dabneys being arrested! What other story was there?”

  “I sent you the story about Camelot Court with four pictures,” I said with a barely covered yawn. “I sent that earlier, so it will be further down your e-mail. Check for it so I can go back to sleep.”

  “Oh here it is,” he said. “You didn’t need to do that for this paper. Didn’t I tell you? Wednesday is the front page deadline. It’ll be inside next week’s paper.”

  I groaned, said goodbye, and went back to sleep.

  Kylie called at nine to remind me that I had promised to go to the Flood Festival committee meeting with her.

  “Tell me it’s not today,” I said.

  “It’s today,” she said. “I’ll pick you up a little before 11. Now, what do you know about Doris Dabney being arrested?”

  I have to admit that I liked being the one who knew the whole story. I didn’t tell Kylie I had been on a junk food binge and made a seven-hour job out of writing seven paragraphs. I just sat up on the edge of the bed, stood up, and started talking as I walked to the kitchen to make coffee.

  “And,” I wound up, just as I was having my first sip of coffee. “You are not going to believe the picture I have of Doris Dabney. Josh won’t put it in the paper because Dave Dabney is an advertiser.”

  “Maybe you could put it on Facebook,” Kylie said.

  I laughed and then got serious.

  “No, I wouldn’t d
o that to the Dabneys,” I told her “It might go viral, and they’ve got enough grief already.”

  When she came to pick me up, I showed her a copy of it I had printed out.

  “She looks like a wild animal protecting her cub,” Kylie said. “And look at the poor cub. David sure has gotten skinny since I last saw him.”

  “I think he has unhealthy habits,” I said.

  Sheena QOTJ was dressed for spring in a silver knit dress with spaghetti straps covered by a gauzy fuschia tunic that fell off one shoulder and was held in place with chains around her waist. The others mostly wore jeans and last year’s Flood Festival t-shirts. I already knew three of the women, who were friends of my mother’s, and Jade Montgomery, who was apparently in charge of the vendors. One of the men, Cody Granger, had been a year ahead of Kylie and me in high school and was now Chairman of the Board for the Chamber of Commerce, and treasurer for the Flood Festival. I was about to shake his hand when he decided a hug was in order.

  Sheena knew that I was doing some work for The Register, and wanted to know if I was covering the meeting she was about to chair. I assured her I wasn’t there as a reporter.

  “Well, good,” she said, “Because I just hate being quoted when I’m really just talking, you know, like regular talking. I’ve told Josh that, and he knows not to quote me when I don’t know I’m being quoted, or to let me see what he’s going to say I said.”

  “Not to worry,” I said, keeping a straight face. “I’m just here to volunteer.”

  Kylie jumped in and said, “Kate’s willing to do some publicity for us. She’s a real pro, and she’s a good photographer, too, so next week, I want you all to show up ready to have a group picture taken.”

  “Are you implying that we’re not always ready?” one of the women asked, and they all laughed.

  The meeting got underway. It was more interesting than the City Council meeting, but longer, mainly because Sheena kept asking questions that had already been answered.

  I got what I needed, which was a list of the committee chairs with their telephone numbers and e-mails.

  I talked Kylie into coming back to my place for lunch and made tuna salad sandwiches with potato chips on the side.

  “You know, this place is like a home already,” she said. “But you do need two more kitchen chairs…”

  “And two more bookcases,” I said, “And some side tables, and I really need a work table for my studio, and I’ve got a storage problem for my art supplies.”

  “And you need a carpet,” she said.

  Then we got back to talking about the Dabneys.

  “I feel really sorry for Dave,” Kylie said. “Imagine having your wife and your only son both in jail.”

  “And what if David didn’t kill Miss Merkle?” I said, remembering Daniel’s caution. “I mean that those arrests yesterday were something they brought on themselves. David’s been saying all along that he didn’t do it, and they must not have any real evidence that he did—you know like DNA or fingerprints. If they did, they would have charged him already. I think that his mother just made one great big mess of things, talking that poor girl into lying.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do if I thought the twins were going to prison,” Kyle said. “I might lie for them myself, but I don’t think I’d try to get somebody else to lie.”

  I saw a shadow of worry cross her face.

  “That’ll never happen,” I said.

  “Nobody ever thinks it will,” she said. “Doris Dabney did Cub Scout den mother and everything. I remember when David Dabney was just a cute little kid at Vacation Bible School, and I remember when Mary Jane Pendleton was just this little shy mouse who was reading a Harry Potter book under the pavilion while all the other kids were screaming and running around at the Flood Festival. One minute you’re snapping them into onesies, and the next minute they want to get their noses pierced, and you find things in their dresser drawers.”

  She shuddered.

  “We’ve got to stop talking about this awful stuff,” she said

  I changed the subject and told her about my visit to Camelot Court, and how Eddie Robuck had called Jade Montgomery “Vitamin J.” and had actually seen Miss Merkle walking that Monday. Then I realized I was getting right back the awful stuff Kylie didn’t want to talk about.

  “And you know,” I said, “Maxie Lewis’ patio really was nice. It made me want to find some wicker furniture for my front porch.”

  Kylie brightened up, and we talked about keeping an eye out for porch furniture.

  “Not too much, though!” she said. “You don’t want it to look like a living room. You know, maybe you ought to think about making a patio area in the back instead. If you start spending time on the front porch, people will stop by or come over.”

  I knew she was thinking about Sally Turbo, but at least she wasn’t dwelling on the idea of twin felons in the future.

  On Thursday morning, I came up with a temporary resolution to my not having anything but an easel in my so-called “studio.” I dragged my easel to a place by the kitchen counter, set my paints, brushes, and water out and started making a glorious mess.

  For a whole day, including four different failed attempts and then some success at capturing the old gray barn, I was light years away from murder, crime reporting, and dysfunctional families. My biggest decision was to have the sun rising instead of setting.

  Kylie called once, and I told her I was painting, and she wished me well. Josh called once, but I checked caller ID and let him leave a message. He just said, “I’ll try to reach you later.”

  Then right when I was making supper for myself, Aunt Verily called and left a message that she needed my help, so I called her back.

  “I have a big favor to ask you,” she said “I just heard from Laurinda Dove. The financial people at Laurel College have hired an appraiser to look over the contents of Meredith’s house. She’ll be meeting the appraiser there tomorrow at two. She understands my feelings about the book collection, but she wanted me to come over and just make sure there were no really valuable ones and take Meredith’s personal papers back to the library so she will have met her responsibility. She said the appraiser sounded like a bit of a stickler, and she wanted everything done right.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” I said. “Are you going to do it?”

  “Yes, but I’m not telling anybody because Maxie and Hester will start up their nonsense again,” she said “Kate, I need for you to go with me. You know books, and you can look through them fast, and maybe pull out any that look really old. I can’t get down to the lower shelves without hurting my back or my knees, but I can go through her desk and just put everything in a couple of boxes to sort out later.”

  “I’ll be glad to,” I said.

  “I hate to bother you with this,” she went on, “But I need the help.”

  “Can I snoop around and look for the Sandwich glass vase?” I asked. “I think it might go perfectly with my new blue sofa.”

  That cheered her up. She laughed and said, “Oh, by all means, and maybe there’s a Rembrandt in the attic that we could sneak out.”

  That night, just to do my job right, I did a little internet searching on rare first editions and was surprised to find some of my own favorites—like The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and The Velveteen Rabbit—listed. Unfortunately, my own copies weren’t first editions, and I couldn’t imagine Miss Merkle having either in her collection.

  Josh called, and I answered.

  “The paper sold out,” he said. ”That’s the first time since I’ve been here. I’ve been wanting to try out my new grill. How about coming over tomorrow night about six, and we’ll celebrate with steaks and wine. You don’t mind dogs, do you?”

  “No,” I said. “I like dogs.”

  And then, because I couldn’t think of any reason to say no, and it didn’t involve c
andlelight, I accepted his invitation.

  When I swore Kylie to secrecy and told her about going to Miss Merkle’s house, and about the appraiser coming, she reacted in pure Kylie fashion.

  “Oooh, take a look around at the furniture!” she said. “If they’re going to have an estate sale, you might want to get there early and buy her bookcases.”

  “I don’t want anything of Miss Merkle’s,” I said. “I can make brick and board bookcases if I have to.”

  “Well, if you get in before the appraiser gets there, at least look for the blue vase,” she said with a giggle. “If it’s there, then we’ll know that Flip Tarver is not a cat burglar.”

  That night, I finished “Emma.” I have always thought Mr. Knightley was a sweetie for being willing to move into Emma’s house so she could stay with her old hypochondriac daddy.

  Chapter 13

  Meredith Merkle’s home was a narrow two-story red brick house, with a narrow yard, built in a neighborhood that was a messy mix of old Victorians and split-level ranch houses. Laurinda Dove, who was an elegant silver-haired woman in her fifties, met us at the front door, looking a bit peeved that the appraiser was running late.

  My first reaction on entering the house was wanting to turn right around and leave, but that wasn’t because of memories of the deceased.

  It was just dark and claustrophobic, with dark woodwork, brooding floral wallpaper, and more furniture than the narrow rooms could accommodate. It helped a bit when Laurinda walked briskly around turning on every light she could find.

  Once we had a quick tour (there were bookcases upstairs as well as downstairs), we went to work.

  Aunt Verily had brought several cardboard boxes and gave me two of them. She took her seat at the roll top desk in Miss Merkle’s tiny study and went briskly to work. I went upstairs and began going from one bookcase to the next. It didn’t take long to realize that Aunt Verily’s assessment had been correct.

  It was a horde, not a collection, and in several cases, when I pulled an older book out to look at the publication date, it turned out to be a book from the River Valley Library with the old paper card pocket ripped out.