As she pulled her car back around to head toward home, she repeated her brother’s words in her head. Sometimes the truth hurts more than it helps.
Chapter 27
Leon Galt lay in his hospital bed, aching from head to toe. “No,” he repeated into the phone. “Let it go. And by the way, there won’t be any more money coming your way.” He ended the call and laid his cell phone next to him on the hospital bed.
A nurse walked in with a plate of cookies. “Someone brought you a treat, Mr. Galt.” She set the plate on the side table and moved his pillow back into place. “Do you need anything while I’m here?”
“Stronger pain killers.”
She smiled, saying, “I’ll see what I can do.”
He reached for the note and read the name: Deena Sharpe. He threw it down. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were laced with arsenic.
Chapter 28
Gary made Deena promise to stay out of trouble when he left for work on Monday, waving the ticket she had received like a declaration of war. Although he was as concerned as she was about the outlook of Matthew’s legacy, he cared more about his wife’s safety than her obsession with finding answers. Apparently getting a ticket for reckless driving, causing a man to have a heart attack, and sending another man careening off the road were a little too much excitement for him to ignore.
Consequently, she didn’t tell him that she drove back to Bingham on Sunday with a plate of store-bought cookies for Leon Galt. She told him they were for a “sick friend,” which was not exactly a lie. He was in the hospital, and she had seen him more often than her other friends lately.
When the nurse had told Deena he was in surgery for a broken hand, she left the plate with a post-it note that read, Get well soon. -Deena.
It was the least she could do since they’d almost killed him.
Carolyn Fitzhugh was not in the phone book, but that didn’t stop Deena. She had a hunch Sandra would know how to get in touch with her. All the bigwigs in town supported the animal shelter and Sandra’s thrift store. Besides, she wanted to go to the shop for a new umbrella since the weatherman was finally predicting rain.
Sandra closed the store on Mondays during the winter months, but it was deep into tourist season and she needed all the business she could get. She looked up from the register when the bells on the door jingled. “Welcome.” She smiled at Deena, continuing to help her customer.
The glass and pottery aisle, as always, called Deena’s name, and she answered by making a beeline to its jam-packed shelves. Several new pieces of pottery peeked out from behind a set of blue-rimmed margarita glasses. She carefully picked them up, admiring their colorful Southwestern designs. They were perfect to sell at her booth, so she took them both up to the counter.
She walked over to the purses and accessories. A vintage parasol stuck out of the umbrella stand next to the scarves and gloves. She picked it up and saw that most of the silk was tattered, too worn out for her to purchase. Several folding umbrellas lay in a bin, including a red one with white polka dots.
When she opened it, Sandra’s voice screeched from across the store. “Not inside! It’s bad luck!”
Deena quickly closed the umbrella, feeling like a teenager caught making out with her boyfriend. She had forgotten how superstitious her friend was and waited for the customer at the counter to leave before walking up to the register. “Sorry,” she said, “but I don’t think it’s possible to have any worse luck than I’ve had lately.”
“Knock on wood,” Sandra ordered, and they both tapped their knuckles on the oak countertop. “Are you talking about your uncle’s case?”
“Yep. And by the way, that picture I showed you was indeed an engagement photo.”
“I thought so,” Sandra said with a self-congratulatory grin. “Anytime you want me to be your assistant sleuth, just say the word.”
She rang up the two vases and then picked up the umbrella. “This is in good working condition,” she said. “I test all the umbrellas I get before I put them on the shelf. Outside, of course. This one is on the house since I scared the bajeebers out of you.”
“Thanks,” Deena laughed and pulled out her credit card to pay for the pottery. She heard something shuffle behind the counter and peered around the corner. “Who’s this?” she asked when she spotted a black ball of fluff.
“This is Pepper.” Sandra untied the leash from her stool and walked the shy little puppy around to Deena who bent down to pet the little dog. “We are trying to socialize her, so I thought she might spend the day at the shop. She was found in a dumpster about two weeks ago. Isn’t she adorable?”
Deena felt a tug at her heart as she rubbed the neck and ears of the precious pooch. “I can’t believe no one has adopted her.”
“Oh, that won’t be a problem. She’s just too young still. There’s even a waiting list for her. It’s the older, not-so-pretty ones that we have trouble re-homing.” She reached into a small bag and pulled out a treat for the pup. “It reminds me of the treasures I sell in this shop. You see a sweet, flawless Hummel figurine, and it flies off the shelf. Then you have another one with a chip on the girl’s bow or maybe the boy’s arm has been glued back on, and you can’t give it away.”
Deena shook her head, knowing she was guilty of seeing things that way.
“Things don’t have to be perfect to have value,” Sandra said.
“You’re right. If it were the same with people, we’d all be living in dumpsters.”
Sandra laughed. “When you finally decide to get a dog, let me know. I’ll help you pick one out.” She winked at her friend.
Deena snapped her fingers. “I almost forgot the reason I came in today. Do you know Carolyn Fitzhugh?”
“Of course. Doesn’t everyone? Oh, I forget you aren’t originally from Maycroft. She’s quite a character.”
“I was hoping to get a chance to talk to her about someone I am trying to locate.”
“Her daughter, Estelle, takes care of her now. I could call to see if she is up for a visit. Keep an eye on things and I’ll be right back.” Sandra disappeared into the storeroom as several new customers milled around the shop.
Deena spied them suspiciously, hoping they wouldn’t try to shoplift. She didn’t want to bust some heads. Working on her uncle’s murder case had been empowering, and she was feeling more of her inner Lara Croft lately.
Sandra returned within a few minutes. “You are expected at the residence of Mrs. Carolyn Fitzhugh at precisely two o’clock this afternoon. I hope that’s okay,” Sandra said and wrote the address on a notepad.
“Perfect. Thanks, Watson.”
“If you want to win her over, I suggest two things: Wear a dress and take a gift.”
Deena’s face twisted in displeasure. “I can handle the dress part—if I have to—but what sort of gift should I take?”
“I bet she would just love a pretty Southwestern vase,” Sandra said, handing the shopping bag to Deena. “Oh, and whatever you do, don’t mention her brother.”
Chapter 29
As she pulled into the long driveway that led to the Fitzhugh house, Deena wondered if her navy and white dress was fancy enough for her visit to “Lady Fitzhugh.” She lived in one of the large houses on the outskirts of town that most people only drive by when showing visitors historic landmarks.
Often referred to as the “Grande Dame of Maycroft,” Carolyn lost her husband nearly twenty years earlier but kept her social standing and estate in perfect order.
Deena, gift in hand, lifted the gothic brass knocker on the front door and waited for her hostess. A housekeeper wearing a uniform and little hat opened the door and escorted Deena to the parlor. An impressive staircase wound its way down and emptied into the large foyer. She glanced around the eclectic décor. A large urn with a bird-like figure balanced on a marble column. A western cowboy scene hung on the opposite wall.
The housekeeper deposited Deena in the parlor, motioning for her to sit on a red velvet sofa
.
The built-in shelves across from her were filled with assorted knick knacks, everything from a brightly painted totem pole to a large ivory elephant. It looked like Jane Austen meets Annie Oakley.
The doors opened wide, and Estelle pushed her mother’s wheelchair into the room and parked her across from Deena.
“Hello Mrs. Fitzhugh. I’m Deena Sharpe.”
Looking her over, the woman said, “How do you do, my dear. This is my daughter, Estelle.”
Poor Estelle seemed out of breath, most likely from helping her mother get ready for the visit. She was about Deena’s age, but seemed older. She nodded and sat in a straight-back chair at the end of the rosewood coffee table.
“You have a lovely home,” Deena said politely. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I brought you a small gift.”
“My, what a sweet gesture.” Mrs. Fitzhugh opened the package and admired the piece of pottery. “Such a pretty vase,” she said and handed it to Estelle who carried it out of the room. “Would you care for some tea?”
A glass of iced tea sounded perfect. “I’d love some.”
Mrs. Fitzhugh pulled out a small silver bell that was hiding somewhere under the layers of fabric beneath her crocheted shawl. The maid returned promptly with a full silver tea service.
Hot tea? In the middle of July?
“I’ll mind it.” The housekeeper left the room just as Estelle tip-toed back in and took her seat. Mrs. Fitzhugh proceeded to go through the ritual of tea service, from cream to lemon to sugar cubes. She seemed to be enjoying herself. When she finally finished, she picked up her cup and blew on it. “You taught at the high school, is that right?”
“Yes,” Deena said, surprised by the comment.
“Too bad you lost your job. That poor Haskett girl. Such a shame.”
Deena was at a loss for words. She sat holding her teacup mid-air, steam opening the pores on her face.
“And your husband is a financial advisor. Such a handsome man. Reminds me of Jonathan Baker who used to raise horses down the road.”
Deena offered a weak smile. This old busy-body had more information than the FBI.
“Now, what can I do for you, dear?” Mrs. Fitzhugh held her cup and saucer and tilted her head like a queen granting an audience to one of her lowly subjects.
“Well,” Deena said, still feeling caught off guard, “I wanted to see if you know a woman I am looking for.”
Her hostess smiled, saying, “I know everyone, dear.” Then she placed the dainty china cup to her lips.
“This woman hasn’t lived in Maycroft for years.”
“As I said, I know everyone.” She took a sip.
“Then I guess you know Donna Morrison.”
With that, Earl Grey spewed from the old woman’s mouth, spraying a shower of hot tea all over her and the table.
“Mother!” Estelle cried. She grabbed the tea towels and began wildly blotting the doilies around her mother’s neck and chest.
“Stop that! Stop!” Mrs. Fitzhugh yelled, slapping away her daughter’s hands as if swatting flies.
Deena calmly took a drink from her cup to hide her uncontrollable grin, hoping the wicked witch didn’t melt.
“I’m afraid you will have to leave,” Estelle said. Deena put down her cup and stood.
“No! Sit!” Mrs. Fitzhugh ordered. Deena sat, awaiting her next command.
“Stop that!” she yelled again at Estelle who had moved on to wiping up the tray and table. “Remove this tray!” Estelle began to pick it up. “Not you, Irene!” She rang the bell furiously, and the housekeeper rushed in. “Take this tray and take her with you!” Estelle and Irene left the parlor and closed the doors behind them.
Mrs. Fitzhugh took several deep breaths to regain her composure. Her jaw was set as she looked sternly at Deena. “How do you know Donna Morrison?”
“I don’t. I just know who she is. I’m trying to locate her.”
“Why? What on earth would you want from that harlot?” She wrung her hands in her lap.
“I am looking into the death of my uncle.”
“Matthew Meade,” she said.
“Yes. Did you know him?”
Mrs. Fitzhugh gave Deena a stern look and did not answer.
“Donna Morrison was with Matthew on the night he disappeared. I would like to talk to her to see if she can offer any insight as to what was happening with Matthew and the company where they both worked.” Deena shifted in her chair, waiting for Mrs. Fitzhugh to respond.
In measured words, she finally said, “Donna Morrison is what we used to call a ‘floozy.’ She was a gold digger looking for a sugar daddy. She found one in my brother.”
Deena cringed, remembering the warning she had gotten from Sandra.
“Glenn had big plans, political aspirations, but he put all that in jeopardy when he took up with that woman. He was married, you see, and had a son. He would sneak around to see her while his poor wife took care of the house and that baby.” Her eyes began to glisten; she was caught up in her memories.
“Something eventually got to him. Maybe it was guilt...maybe it was just the liquor. He started drinking heavily and was fired. That was the end of his political career. They moved to Houston to be near his wife’s family, but it only got worse. The best thing that ever happened to him was when he drove off a ravine one night and was killed.”
How could anyone be so cold-hearted about their own child? Deena asked, “Did his wife know about the affair?”
“Of course. Women can sense these things, you know. But she stayed with him. After he died, she married herself a real nice fellow and had two more children.”
Afraid to get too personal, Deena decided to ask anyway. “Do you blame your brother or Donna for his downfall?”
Mrs. Fitzhugh hesitated. “Both.”
They sat in awkward silence for a long moment. Deena was not sure what to do or say.
Mrs. Fitzhugh spoke up first. “I understand why you would want to talk to her. I’ll give you the information I have.” She picked up the bell and rang it again. When Estelle opened the door tentatively, Mrs. Fitzhugh ordered, “Get me my book.”
Deena picked up her purse and fumbled around for pen and paper.
Estelle returned with a thick, black leather-bound book. She handed it to her mother and walked over to stand by one of the room’s heavily draped windows.
At first, Deena thought Estelle had brought in the family bible. In a way, though, it was. The book contained Mrs. Fitzhugh’s years of contacts, each entry neatly written in her own handwriting.
“Here is the latest information I have. Her married name is McCaig. Must have married an Irishman.” She wrinkled her nose as if smelling something foul. “What did you say your name was again?” She looked at her guest suspiciously.
“Deena Sharpe.”
“Sharpe. Oh yes, a good English name,” she said and relaxed. “Her address is 1289 Riley Road in Fort Worth. That should help you locate her.”
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Fitzhugh.” Deena picked up her purse and stood.
“I enjoyed your visit very much, Mrs. Sharpe. You are welcome to return any time.”
Deena nodded and, for some unknown reason, performed a half curtsy and followed Estelle to the door.
Once on the front porch, Estelle lowered her voice to a whisper. “Be careful when you talk to Donna Morrison. Mother once told me she tried to blackmail my Uncle Glenn. She might try to get money out of you, too.”
Deena nodded and then hurried down the paved pathway. More secrets, she thought. Everyone had them.
PARKING IN FRONT OF the Fitzhugh Public Library, Deena noted the irony. She hoped to find a current Fort Worth telephone directory. The girl at the counter was a former student, another one whose name Deena could not remember.
“Hi, Mrs. Sharpe. How’s it going?”
Deena used her fallback greeting. “Hey you!” The extra dash of enthusiasm always helped. “I’m good. How have you
been?”
“I’m going back to UT in the fall.”
“That’s great. So, I was wondering if you all would have a copy of the Fort Worth phone directory.”
“Sure, we have it online. I’ll show you.”
They walked over to the small computer station and the girl got Deena started.
“McCaig,” Deena said as she typed the name into the search bar. She looked for a listing on Riley Road. Bingo! There it was. Michael McCaig. She wrote down the phone number and closed the program. As she walked back toward the counter, her eyes were drawn like magnets to the fiction section. Then she pictured the stack of mysteries on her night table that she had put off reading and decided against perusing the shelves. Before she knew it, she bumped into a tall pedestal, nearly knocking a marble bust to the floor. She grabbed it and set it upright, carefully stepping back to make sure it was steady. The gold nameplate screamed at her to be more careful. It read: Carolyn R. Fitzhugh. Great. Now she’s stalking me.
She passed the counter on her way out. “Thank you. Good to see you.” Chiding herself, she thought, the older I get, the more students I have named “You.”
Anxious to call Donna, she sat in the car and used her cell phone to dial the number. Two rings, three, four...
“Hello,” a woman said.
Suddenly, Deena realized she had not thought about what she would say. She would have to wing it. “Is this Donna Morrison? I mean McCaig?”
“Yes, to both,” the woman said. “Who is this? If you’re selling something, I’m not buying.”
“No, no. My name is Deena Sharpe. Matthew Meade was my uncle.” She waited, hoping the other woman would speak first. She didn’t. “Did you used to work at Barnes Medical Supply?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know Matthew Meade?”
Cozy Suburbs Mystery Box Set Page 13
