by Imogen Plimp
“She … but Al, it was ruled an accident…” I looked up at my daughter.
“Yeah, and…” Al waited for me for piece it together.
“What?” yelled Emma, irritated, and nearly sitting in my lap by now.
I looked up at Al.
“She died from a fall down the stairs,” Al said.
* * *
The four of us talked about Galway—the case and the town itself—well into the night. Apart from the personal connection to the town drama, it was a lovely evening. Just four girlfriends lounging about in the parlor, drinking cocktails and trying to get to the bottom of the motives and whereabouts of a potential serial killer. You know, the usual.
“I mean, my God, Claire!” slurred Emma—who becomes even more “Emma” a few drinks in. “Your new little town has more murders per capita than New York City!”
“There’ve only been two,” I retorted.
“In a town of only forty-two people!” she huffed. “That’s more than there are in Murder, She Wrote—per capita, I mean.”
“I love Jessica Fletcher. What a dame,” Ry interjected, chewing a maraschino cherry off its stem.
“I just can’t believe Dale Duke could have done this,” I finally blurted out (I had just finished my second cocktail, myself).
“Yes, but it is … an … odd coincidence, don’t you think?” slurred Emma.
“And a spooky one at that,” Al added.
“Yes but … he’s an incredibly sweet man. I mean you should see this ski resort. He and his staff, at his urging, actually go out onto the trails and trim trees by hand. They don’t own any big motorized equipment. And they’ve always been allowed to use the land—which is a designated wilderness area—because they don’t use big motorized equipment. They don’t make fake snow, they don’t use chemicals for anything...”
“So what?” asked Al, growing slightly irritated at my naivety. “What does that have to do with murder?”
“I just feel like a man who loves nature that much, who’s gentle even with the trees … he’s not a killer.”
“I don’t know.” Emma was gazing blankly into the bottom of her empty tumbler, as if expecting it to say something illuminating.
“I mean, you’re right Mom,” Al urged gently. “But the manner of his wife’s death can’t be totally discounted from these recent murders. Or the fact that the man is related to the prime suspect.”
“You’re right,” I said.
“Mom?”
“What?”
“You’re thinking about going to talk to him about this when you get back, aren’t you?”
“Well, I don’t know … I guess I…” Now I was the one gazing into the bottom of my glass like a trippy scene from Alice in Wonderland.
“Mom … this is a murder investigation,” Al cautioned emphatically. She sat up straight. “An actual murder investigation, not something in a movie. Even if it is in a tiny town, it’s serious. You have to be careful.”
“I know honey,” I murmured.
“Mom….” Al was looking at me like I wasn’t paying any attention.
“What?”
“So you’re not going to go track Dale Duke down and pepper him with questions about his dead – maybe murdered – wife?”
“Maybe I could bring Evelyn along…”
“Mom!”
“No, you’re right,” I nodded in agreement. “I’ll stay out of it. That would be silly—”
“And dangerous!” Al reminded me.
“And dangerous. You’re right. None of my business.” I mimed zipping my mouth shut, then stood to carry my glass and some other empties off into the kitchen.
I overheard Al sigh dramatically as I exited the sitting room.
A terrible smell hit me square in the face the moment I opened up the kitchen door—a mix of rot and bleach … and dead something… It was coming from the trashcan. Now I was the one sighing deeply. That daughter of mine, I thought.
I picked up the trash bag out of the can—and my heart nearly stopped. At the bottom of the can, underneath the garbage bag, was a mousetrap—with a dead mouse nestled snugly inside of its cruel jaws. I signed again, grabbed a paper towel, scooped the trap and its mouse up, and deposited them both into the trash bag. Then I tied up the bag and lugged it out into the hallway.
“Be right back! I’m just taking the trash out,” I called toward the sitting room.
I pulled on my boots, threw on my jacket, and started down the stairs.
No one was out in the building tonight, and some of the stairwell lights were burnt out.
Goshdarnit, I thought, should have brought my phone for the light, also noting I would have to try to remember to call the super to fix the lighting the following morning.
When I’d safely reached the stairwell landing, I plopped the garage bag down on the floor with a wet plat and huddled up in anticipation of the coming chill, pulling my fleece hood up over by head.
It was a relatively quiet night outside. Just the sound of distant car horns and a group of teenagers playing ball, crossing the street a couple blocks down Wolcott Street. I hopped down off the stoop and walked out onto the sidewalk toward our collection of designated trash bins. I looked up and saw a man who was up to the same dirty job as I was—hauling a huge trash bag out to the sidewalk just across the street. His bag looked bulky enough to be a dead body. I smiled at him in solidarity, but he either didn’t see me or didn’t care to acknowledge my existence. Oh, New York, how I’ve missed you, I mused to myself.
I deposited our garbage bag into its bin and closed the lid, then looked up as the man across the street turned on his heels and walked briskly down Wolcott, hanging a left onto Richards Street. That’s odd, I thought. Must have taken the trash down on his way out, I guess. I shrugged. And yet… I had never seen that man, before… It was possible someone new had moved in—but the thought gave me an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
As I turned around to head back inside our building, I glanced discreetly at the man’s garbage bin—and saw a flash of white. A piece of fraying cloth was sticking out from the top of the bag he had just dumped—no, it wasn’t a piece of cloth. It looked like hair. A big clump of bleached blonde hair.
I stood there in the cold, numbly looking left, then right, then back at the pile of garbage across the street. My heart was beating faster and faster—racing now. No one else was on our block, no one coming or going… And the man who had dumped whatever was in that bag looked to be long gone.
I gave it 30 more seconds, standing immobile for what seemed an eternity. Then I gathered the nerve to cross the street.
As I got closer to the garbage bin—and my heart climbed further up into my throat—it became more and more obvious that what I was seeing was, in fact, a clump of hair. Human hair—and there was a lot of it. At least enough for half a headful, sticking unabashedly out of the garbage bag, waving in the wind like a sad, sorry, white flag of surrender.
I opened up the already tipped lid gingerly, afraid of what might jump out at me—and pulled open the heavy duty garbage bag by its draw strings, as if in slow-motion.
It took a moment to register what I was seeing—it just couldn’t be true, said my brain. Here I was, standing on a family-friendly residential Brooklyn side street, just barely after sunset, looking down at a head of human hair in a trash can.
And that human hair was attached to a manikin bust.
My chest muscles relaxed a bit. I reached out and touched the manikin lightly—just to make sure it really wasn’t a human body, I suppose. Then, slowly, I raised my gaze to the building in front of me, to the shop on its lower level.
Out front hung a sign I’d never seen before. It was a quaint wooden slab attached to the overhang by two thick metal chains. Engraving was etched into the sign in black block letters. “Imogen.” the sign said, “A one-stop fashion boutique.”
A new shop had opened up while I’d been away, and I hadn’t noticed it until now.
My heart released its grasp from the inside of my throat, and I began to breathe normally again.
That’s the thing about murder. Once you find yourself caught up in one, you start seeing it everywhere.
Chapter Fifteen
To be honest, I had agreed to Al’s terms about not approaching Dale Duke regarding the death of his wife under extenuating circumstances. We had both had a couple of drinks—she was feeling protective, and I was feeling agreeable. But in the sober light of day, I simply couldn’t see how I couldn’t talk to Dale.
It was Friday morning. I had just made a batch of banana nut muffins from scratch—one of Al’s favorite recipes. She had to run off to work, but she kissed me goodbye and promised to come out to see the Galway house soon. Rupert and I took a brief stroll around the block, then I grabbed a muffin and coffee to go—and we were headed back to our makeshift Appalachian paradise.
As I entered Warren County, a radio report began rambling on about a pending winter storm warning. Apparently, a system was headed our way from all the way out in the Pacific. It was due to arrive Monday or Tuesday and dump up to two feet of snow in the higher elevations, which included Galway. My first blizzard as an official Appalachian resident. I was giddy—like a little kid before a snow day (obvious, I know). Ray was right about the coming weather, too, I thought.
Oh, Ray! I hadn’t yet had the time to stop and think about Ray, to unpack what had happened on Tuesday before I’d skipped town. Why had I been acting so strangely around him? Was it the cowboy thing? Or the repairman thing? Thus dredging up the predictable damsel in distress archetype from the collective feminine deep… Or was it possible I might actually have feelings for him? Of course not, I barely knew the man… But feelings don’t need reasons. Did I have my first crush since George’s death? But then I fell down the rabbit hole of thinking about George’s death all over again...
And then there was Henry. I hadn’t thought about Henry at all since our last run-in at the Galway Inn—not until Emma had reminded me of him. I did feel little butterflies in Henry’s company, and I hadn’t had any chance to speak with him apart from our brief re-introduction, which was a flop, to put it mildly. In that particular moment in the Inn’s restaurant, I had taken solace in comparing him to George, but I knew I couldn’t do that to every man I ever met, forever. And yet—if I attempted to extricate guilt from the equation—how could I be developing feelings for two men? as Al had suggested.
Oh, God! Al!… I thought with a tinge of panic. My daughter—George’s daughter. How would it make her feel if I started seeing someone else? She seemed fine with it during cocktail hour, but we had just been joking around. Maybe she had just been “playing it cool,” taking it in stride in an effort to be supportive of her poor mom. I would have to talk to her about it…
In the meantime, take it one day at a time, I reminded myself. Just do the next right thing. And the next right thing, it was painfully obvious to me, was to find Dale Duke.
* * *
My car steered its way toward Goshen, which was just beginning to get busy for the weekend rush. Though I hadn’t planned to head straight to talk to Dale on my way back into town, it appeared my instincts to do so were spot on: Dale had been out all week and had just come back to work as the crowds began to grow. I spotted him easily through the bustle in the welcome cabin lean-to. His head of silver hair bobbed above all the others. He dawned a wide smile when I waved and instantly headed my way.
“Hello there, sweetheart,” he said, kissing both my cheeks. “Come to take a quick spin on the hills before the weekend madness really gets going?” he asked, grinning at me warmly.
“Actually, Dale,” I lowered my voice. “I’m really sorry to do this, but…”
“What is it?” he searched my eyes, genuinely concerned.
“Well, it’s delicate.” I shuffled my feet uncomfortably. “Is there somewhere more private we could talk?”
“Sure, come on back to the office.”
I turned and I followed. He paused to help a group of teenaged girls with their ski fittings and to assist a young mom and her two little kids get suited up. Eventually, we winded down a labyrinth of a hallway, past the bathrooms and kitchen, and found ourselves in Dale’s office—which was more of a storage room. It was packed with giant cans of diced tomatoes and boxes of bone broth for the kitchen and snowshoes and ski boots and piles and piles of papers stacked every which way.
Dale removed a stack of papers from a box of canned beans. “Here you go,” he said, motioning to the box. “Pop a squat.”
I did so—as he leaned back against his desk.
“Now what’s going on?” he asked softly, crossing his arms.
“Well, as I’m sure you know…” I was easing in. “James Matthews was killed in my house.” I placed my purse down on the floor next to a coffee can full of soup spoons.
“Yes,” he nodded, “I heard.”
“And I know your nephew Ben has been picked up for James’ and Leslie’s murders … but I really don’t think he was involved, and I wanted to … to talk to you about that.” Boy, was I bad at this.
“Sure,” Dale shifted position, clearly a little uncomfortable, too.
“Do you have any idea where Ben was the nights of Leslie’s and James’s murders?”
Dale paused to think. “I’m not sure, at least not entirely.” He was speaking carefully—I could tell. “He says he was home during James’s murder—and I believe him. But I don’t know about the night of Leslie’s murder. I know I didn’t see him either night, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It is.” I nodded. “Did you see James or Leslie yourself right before … you know?”
“I didn’t see James—come to think of it, I don’t think I saw James during his entire stay here, at least not this time around. We’ve been so busy with the post-holiday season, and he hasn’t been out here to ski in awhile, and I’d imagine he’s been busy, too…”
“Sure,” I nodded. I wondered briefly if I should be taking notes. No, too rude, I decided.
Dale sighed. “I saw Leslie on Saturday night—at the Barking Tarantula.”
“The night she died?” I asked, perking up.
“Yes. I got there a little late to see the band start, and she was there already,” Dale started to rub one of his boots with the other, working out a scuff. But he didn’t seem especially antsy—just distracted. “Before Ben was taken into custody, he had told me she was having … ‘a rough time’ is I believe how he put it.”
I sat up straight, on full alert. “Do you know about what?”
Dale shrugged. “Ben wasn’t sure. He assumed it had something to do with a boyfriend, something like that. So anyway, when I saw her that night, I offered to buy her a drink. Thought maybe I could lend an ear.”
“That was you—having a shot with her at the bar?” It looked like Ben having a drink with her at the bar, but Whitney couldn’t be sure, it was so dark…
“Yes ma’am.” It must have been Dale that Whitney had seen that night…
I felt as if I had just found a missing piece of a giant jigsaw puzzle—one that’s been driving you crazy because you’ve already envisioned its exact shape and color and pattern, but it’s not on the table. Turns out it was under your chair this whole time. “Evelyn and I tried to talk to Leslie a few days before … before it happened. We couldn’t get anything out her, even though she was visibly upset.” I searched Dale’s eyes carefully. “Were you able to talk to her?”
“I did talk to her,” he nodded. “But I didn’t get much out of her, either. She vaguely referred to trouble with a male friend. Other than that, I got bupkis. Eventually, I dropped it. If she didn’t want to talk to Uncle Dale about it, then I wasn’t gonna push it.”
I smiled empathetically. “What time did you leave that night?”
“Oh, I really tied one on with some of the younger kids. Had a great time dancing and then playing pool down at the brew pub. I was out until … I’d
say … 3:00 or so, at least. Didn’t hear about any of this madness going on until the following morning.”
“Did you see Leslie leave the Barking Tarantula?”
“No ma’am.” He shook his head. Something about his demeanor was comforting—it just made me sure I could believe him.
“Did you see Ben at all that night—earlier in the evening?”
“No ma’am,” Dale’s eye twitched—as if he were trying not to blink.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“He wasn’t at the Barking Tarantula at any point?”
“No.”
I sighed. Just pull the band-aid right off, Claire. “I also need to ask you … something else that’s delicate—and I’m not sure how.”
“You can go right ahead.” Dale nodded, his face falling at bit. “My nephew’s in jail for two murders I’m sure he didn’t commit—chances are, you won’t make matters any worse.” He smiled timidly.
“Well, I was reading some older articles, and … your wife—”
“Anne.” He nodded.
“Anne,” I said her name slowly, with care. “She passed away a couple years ago…”
“She did,” he looked down at his feet. I knew the feeling.
Then a pregnant pause.
“Dale, my husband… He passed around then, too,” I said.
Dale looked over at me. He wasn’t crying—but he was clearly in pain. His eyes didn’t lie. “Was it an accident?”
“No. It was cancer.”
“Well, these things happen I suppose.” He tried to smile, but his lips only quivered vaguely.
“They do. But I wanted to know … what happened to Anne the night she died?”
Dale seemed to gather himself together—as if collecting the courage to tell this horrid story for the umpteenth time. It all came out in one go, after he took in a big gulp of air: “She was at home alone. I was here. She fell down our stairs. She had been complaining to me for months to fix the upholstery at the top of the landing, but I never got around to it,” he exhaled deeply, as if it took a concerted effort to get through this particular part of the tragedy again. “I don’t know how long she was lying there by herself. When I got home, she was hurt bad, but in and out of consciousness.”
