by Sara Rosett
“No wonder,” I muttered.
“Not good for business, I guess?” she asked.
“Afraid not.”
She twisted her lips to one side and looked speculatively toward the back offices, then shook her head. “I’d help you out, if I could. Lord knows, we could use some organization in the office, but financially we’re stretched to the limit as it is.”
“Thanks, Diane,” I said, touched that she wanted to hire me.
“All that stuff on the news is nonsense, anyway. I know you didn’t do it,” Diane said, and I felt slightly better. At least one person who wasn’t related to me or one of my closest friends believed I wasn’t a murderer. It wasn’t much, but I would take whatever I could get at the moment. Diane lowered her voice, “What happened? Can you talk about it?”
“I guess so. No one told me not to.”
“We haven’t heard anything, except what’s been in the news—and that’s practically nothing. A detective came by this morning and asked us all questions, but he didn’t tell us anything about what happened. All we know is that yesterday, Simon hadn’t been back from lunch long before he got a call and went flying out of here. Gravel literally sprayed the building when he pulled out of the parking lot. He didn’t say one word to anyone, just ran out the door.”
“Maybe one of the neighbors called him,” I said, because I couldn’t imagine that the police or sheriff’s department would notify someone of a loved one’s death over the phone.
“So what happened?”
“I walked in their garage and saw her on the floor. She was already . . . gone. She’d been hit on the back of the head.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” she said sympathetically. “How terrible. What did you do?”
“Well, there wasn’t much I could do. I did check for a pulse. Then Gabrielle got there and I called nine-one-one.” It was the condensed version of the story, but I figured that was enough detail.
“Hit on the head,” Diane murmured as she straightened up and absentmindedly opened the flaps of the box. “Hard to believe. Why would someone do that to Jean? Jean! Of all people.”
“Did you know her well?”
“No, not really. We met for lunch every so often . . . we weren’t close friends. But I am shocked. She wouldn’t hurt a fly, now would she? What could have happened that someone would do that to her?” Diane was speaking more to herself than to me, so I didn’t answer. I began unpacking the items in the box she’d brought in—dried beans, bags of rice, and cans of peaches. She continued, “I had no idea when she didn’t show up yesterday. . . I thought she’d forgotten.”
“You were supposed to meet her yesterday?”
Diane nodded. “One of our occasional lunches. But when she didn’t turn up, I figured she got busy or forgot. I called her and left a message, but I suppose she was already . . . gone by then. Such a loss for Simon,” she continued. “You know, he’s only been here a short time, but he works so hard and does so much. We really feel it with him gone today.”
“Is he here a lot?”
“Oh, yes. Every day. And he didn’t just work on the books and round up new donors. He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty. Anytime the doors are open, he’s out here packing boxes, carrying food for people to their cars. I really was amazed at how quickly he’s become integral to Helping Hands.” She ran her hand over the plastic bag of kidney beans, smoothing it flat. “I was hoping you’d say that it was an open-and-shut case . . . that the police knew who did it.”
I picked up the cans of peaches and said somewhat bitterly, “I sure hope it’s not an open-and-shut case, at least not right now, because I seem to be the only suspect they’ve got.”
“Oh, dear. Then I really do have to say something. When I saw you on the news, I thought that they can’t seriously think you’d do something like that. But I can see by your face that you’re really worried.” She hesitated, then said, “I don’t want to make any trouble. Simon is on the board . . . but if they really don’t know who did it and they’re leaning toward you . . .”
“What is it, Diane?” I set down the cans.
“It’s his lunches,” she said reluctantly. “I wasn’t even going to say anything, but I suppose I have to now.”
“What about his lunches?”
“Well, he says he’s going to lunch every day around eleven-fifteen and he’s gone for an hour, but then he comes back after twelve-fifteen, closes his office door, and eats a sack lunch in there.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “He’s running errands during his lunch break?”
“To the same place, every day? I don’t know what he’s doing, but he’s certainly not going to lunch. I happened to leave right after he did a few weeks ago, not so soon that he noticed me, but close enough that when I pulled into traffic, I noticed I was a few cars behind him on the state highway. He didn’t go to lunch. He turned into that strip mall.”
“Maybe he had a package to mail on the way to lunch?”
“It’s possible,” Diane said in a doubtful tone. “Then, a few days later, it happened again. I left shortly after him and he went to the same place. I didn’t really think about it until I came back that day. I tapped on his door and saw him with a sandwich at his desk. I’d asked him earlier that day what he was doing for lunch and he got this weird look on his face—oh, I don’t know how to describe it—like he was worried and sort of scared. It was strange. Why would he look like that? It made me curious, especially when he kept specifically saying he was going to lunch and then he’d secretively eat a sandwich in his office later. I saw him make that same turn into the strip mall again later that week. I don’t know why I didn’t just say something, ask him what he was doing, but I didn’t, probably because I could tell he didn’t want to talk about it. He had the same jumpy reaction when I asked him if he wanted to go to lunch with Emily and me.”
“Maybe he’s going to that fitness center to work out.” I said. “It’s right there by the strip mall.”
“Then why wouldn’t he say so? Why make a point of mentioning lunch—and he does make a point of saying he’s going to lunch—but then eat in his office later? It’s weird.”
“You’d better tell the detective investigating the case. His name is Waraday, Detective Dave Waraday at the sheriff’s office. I’m sure he’ll be contacting you anyway since you called Jean right before she died.”
“Yes, I suppose I’d better.”
“So he was ‘at lunch’ yesterday shortly before he got the phone call and left?”
“Yes, just like every day. He was back from lunch—or wherever it is that he goes—when he got the phone call.”
“You never followed him to see where he goes?” I asked.
“No,” she sighed. “I thought about it, but I always have some errand to run on my lunch hour—the bank or the dry cleaner or the grocery store. I don’t have time to trail along after him to see what he’s up to—and it would be peculiar, wouldn’t it? Following someone that you work with. I’d decided it really wasn’t any of my business and I wouldn’t worry about it, but now . . .”
“Yes, now you’d better mention it.”
She nodded. “Right. I’ll do it now. The detective left his card. I’ll call his cell phone. You can handle the rest of these things?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said, again picking up the canned peaches. She headed for the back offices and I focused on sorting the rest of the food, thinking that Simon was probably doing something totally innocent, but at least it would give Waraday something else to look into besides me.
A few minutes later, I signed out on the volunteer log and reached for my purse and coat, glad that I’d finished early and would have plenty of time to make it to the school for pickup. My phone rang as I shrugged into my coat. I didn’t recognize the number.
“Ellie, this is Paige.” Her voice was hurried and nervous. “I just finished talking to a detective—he wanted to know all sorts of things about you. He said it was a murder
investigation, the woman who died from a blow to the head. I heard about it on the radio this morning. Are you okay?”
I felt a contraction, a squeezing, in my chest. “For the moment. Was it Detective Waraday?”
“Yes, that was his name. What’s going on?”
“I found Jean, the woman who was murdered. He’s checking my alibi. I told him I was with you right before I found her.” I couldn’t believe I was talking about an alibi. Was I really saying that sentence? But I suddenly realized I had an alibi. A wash of relief flooded through me.
Paige’s voice almost squeaked as she said, “You’re kidding me—he’s checking up on you? Are you serious? Now I wish I hadn’t told him anything.”
“No, I’m glad you talked to him. Thank goodness I had an appointment with you. I didn’t have hardly any time between when I talked with you and when I found Jean. That’s such a tiny window of time—that has to count for something,” I said, then felt some of the relief seep away as I realized I had no idea when Jean was killed, so I didn’t really know if I had an alibi or not. She certainly hadn’t been dead long when I found her. Had her wrist been cold when I touched it? I couldn’t remember. I suppressed a shiver and focused on what Paige was saying.
“Well, I still think he’s an idiot to even suspect you,” she continued. “I mean, come on. You’re too neat and organized to do something as messy as conk someone on the head. Talk about untidy. I mean, not that I think you’d murder someone in a neat way . . . oh, you know what I mean. You’d never murder someone.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said, grinning. “Remind me not to put you on my defense team. You didn’t say any of that to Waraday, did you?”
“No,” she said, her voice dismissive. “Although, why he was so interested in your clothes, I don’t understand.”
“My clothes?” I asked, picking up my purse.
“Yes. He wanted to know exactly what you were wearing, right down to your shoes. It’s a good thing I’ve got an excellent memory—and I really liked that sweater you were wearing. Where did you get it, by the way?”
“It was a Christmas present. He’s making sure I hadn’t changed clothes,” I said, and closed my eyes briefly.
“What?” Paige asked.
“He wants to make sure I hadn’t changed clothes because, you know . . . whoever murdered Jean probably had some blood on them.” And it had to be more than a spot on their shoes, I thought fiercely.
Paige said, “Guess it’s a good thing you wore white that day.”
Tips for a Sane and Happy Holiday Season
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Chapter Eight
The first thing I saw when I stepped out the door of the food bank into the gravel area that served as a parking lot was a patrol car from the sheriff’s office. It was parked beside my minivan. The door swung open and Waraday stepped out. I gripped the two-by-four railing of the wooden platform that topped the three steps leading down to the parking lot. The heavy door to the food bank thudded closed behind me. I wanted to spin around and retreat back inside.
I didn’t want to talk to Waraday. My palms suddenly felt sweaty despite the cool day and my heart was bumping quickly in my chest. He was checking on my movements, following up on where I’d been yesterday. I was a suspect.
As much as I wanted to dash back inside, I couldn’t. I had to get to school to pick up the kids. And he’d already seen me. “Mrs. Avery,” he said, walking toward me. “A word with you?”
I took a deep breath to calm my crazy heartbeat and made a move to brush past him. “I’m sorry. This isn’t a good time. I have to get to the school.”
“We can talk here or we can talk at the sheriff’s office.”
I paused. I didn’t want to go to his office. And I certainly didn’t want to go there without a lawyer. The sheriff’s office was in a county government complex and the county jail was there, too. I licked my lips and cautiously said, “Okay.” I knew it was probably not a good idea to talk to him here without a lawyer, but since I didn’t have one at the moment, it seemed like I should at least hear what he had to say. I didn’t want to make him mad or give him a reason to say I’d refused to cooperate.
“You said that when you first saw the body in the garage you thought it was Gabrielle?” The sun was directly behind his shoulder, so I couldn’t see his face very well, but his voice and manner were straightforward, not intimidating or hostile, which I took to be a good sign.
“Yes,” I said, squinting in the bright sunlight, trying to make out his expression.
“Why was that?”
“I was expecting her. She was the one who asked me to meet her there.” Could he hear the slight tremble in my voice? It was very quiet. The food bank and the bulk of the church building behind me cut off most of the noise from the busy road. A bird, wings stretched wide, glided in lazy circles in the sky overhead.
“What was she doing when you got there?”
“You mean Gabrielle? She wasn’t there when I got there.” The bird swooped lower. It was a vulture.
“What was Jean doing?”
“She wasn’t doing anything,” I said, puzzled at his line of questioning. “She was lying on the floor. I didn’t see her right away.”
“Tell me again about this conflict between you and Ms. Matheson.”
The quick change in the direction of the conversation seemed odd, but it really didn’t surprise me—I knew any conflict would attract his attention and he’d keep pursuing it. I suppressed a tiny sigh at having to go over the details again—it was painful enough to know that Gabrielle had bested me on the professional level and I didn’t really want to dwell on it. Besides, it had nothing to do with Jean’s death, but I answered anyway. “We argued because she lured away an established client of mine and she was undercutting my fees, trying to beat me out when it came to potential clients.”
“I understand one of these jobs you lost to her was for the North Dawkins schools.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Since I couldn’t really see his face, I focused on the vulture, which was making another pass overhead. It tipped its wings and glided out of sight in a quick descent into the wall of forest in the distance.
“Why did she get it and not you? You’re the local—she’s the newcomer. Makes more sense that they’d want someone with a track record in the area.”
Did he know about Gabrielle’s underhanded methods? I believed everything Candy had told me about Gabrielle using sex appeal to get the job, but that information was basically hearsay—just Candy’s opinion. I didn’t want to drag Candy into this situation and I knew that Gabrielle would insist that it was nothing but her organizing talents—not any other talents—that got her the job, so I said, “I don’t know how they make their decisions at the school admin office. All I know is I didn’t get the job.”
“When did you learn this?”
“Wednesday. I got a phone call.”
“And when did you learn Gabrielle got the job?” Waraday asked, and I felt a frisson of worry trace up my spine. Why was he so focused on the job? It had nothing to do with Jean’s death.
“The same day.”
“I see. That must have made you mad,” Waraday said, his voice somehow taking on a more sympathetic tone.
“Well, yes,” I said cautiously, because his sudden abandonment of the straightforward Q-and-A session felt weird. He’d never been solicitous before. “I was upset. It would have been nice to get the job, but there are other jobs.”
“And that very night Ms. Matheson went after another of your potential clients, Marie Forrstead,” Waraday said.
“Yes
, that was what brought everything to a head. I felt I had to stand up for myself. But I shouldn’t have lost my cool like that.”
“But it’s understandable,” Waraday said, nodding. “Yep, I can see how you’d be upset, and when you walked in to the garage and saw her standing there the next day, you lost it again, didn’t you?”
I blinked at him a few times. “What? What do you mean?”
“When you walked in to the garage and saw Mrs. Williams standing with her back to you, you assumed it was Ms. Matheson. You were angry. You had every right to be—it’s common knowledge in the school administration office that Ms. Matheson emphasized other—assets, let’s say—to get that job and she was lowballing you on prices. Yeah, I can see how you’d be upset. Furious, even. That’s how one person from the party described you, Mrs. Avery. Maybe that fury came rushing back when you saw the tall, dark-headed woman in the garage . . .”
“No, no, it wasn’t—” I shook my head, thoughts twisting around in my brain. “No! It wasn’t like that at all.” He thought I’d mistaken Jean for Gabrielle. He thought I’d killed Jean. Motive—he’d constructed a motive for me, his main suspect, and twisted the facts around to support it. I felt breathless and a little dizzy. “I didn’t see anyone when I walked in the garage.”
“But you said you saw an arm on the ground.”
“Not until later.” I reached out, gripped the wooden railing of the steps to steady myself. “I didn’t see anyone when I first walked in.” My thoughts were still swirling. I fought to get them in order, to make sense as I spoke. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t hurt Jean and I didn’t think she was Gabrielle because I didn’t see anyone in the garage.”
“Until later.” Sarcasm laced his tone now.
“Yes. A few minutes after I walked in, I saw the arm and rushed over there.”
Waraday stared at me for a few moments. I held his gaze, my heart pounding. Was he going to arrest me? Who would pick up the kids? Why had I ever opened my mouth without a lawyer? Finally, Waraday said, “You’ve always had an unhealthy interest in criminal activity, especially murder. That’s not normal.”
