Lana had gotten wind of the conversation and was giving me a conspiratorial wink. I didn't return one. I would have been a terrible hypocrite to pretend I didn't believe Raine. Especially when I knew she was right.
"I've got to shower and get ready to start my day," I said.
Lana glanced at her phone. "At ten thirty in the morning. It'll be time for a lunch break as soon as you get to the newspaper office."
"Said the woman playing with her bowl of Lucky Charms," I said dryly. "Besides, I already texted Myrna to let her know I probably wouldn't be into the office today. It seems my pleasant, glowing article on the Applegate Society just took a very dark turn. I've got to regroup and find out the best way to approach it. I don't want to upset the group in case there is still a chance that the convention might end up here in Firefly Junction."
"Sure, throw in that little nugget to get a girl's hopes up," Lana said.
"Oh snap out of it, Lana," Raine said sharply. "You've been moping all morning. It'll all work out fine. Besides you already have two fall wedding receptions planned for late October. It's not like you'll be sitting idly by the phone waiting for them to call." Sometimes Raine was better at handling my sister than me. I was unfortunately always stuck in that little sister status. After years of childhood together, our sibling hierarchy was pretty much cemented in stone. Raine got to come in from a coworker's angle, and that was what Lana needed this morning.
Lana got up from the stool and carried her bowl to the sink. "You're right, Raine. You must be psychic or something." She added that dig just to keep things in check. She was after all older than Raine and her boss. "Let's go to the barn and start working out the decoration list for the Olson wedding."
"Yes, good idea," I said. "I've procrastinated long enough. I need to shower and get going." I suddenly had an urge to find out more about Bonnie Ross, the woman who had very possibly raised Edward's child. My few months at the Junction Times had already given me some good contacts for town records and historical data. I knew exactly the place to start.
Chapter 24
The city hall, or municipal building as some people called it, was just over Colonial Bridge at the front edge of the Birch Highlands turnoff. Since Firefly Junction was a central town in the middle of four small towns, the city hall functioned for all four. The month before, I'd been assigned an article on the rejuvenation project at the local cemetery in Smithville. Part of the assignment required me to do research on some of the older graves, ones that had stone markers so worn from time and weather, the names could no longer be read. That part of the research had taken me to city hall, and more specifically, the records office. And even more specifically, Orson Nettles, the record keeper.
I walked through the lobby of the building. The entire place had been painted in a dull yellow. Wood paneling ran along the bottom half of the walls, signaling that the place had not had a facelift in many years. Even the fake ferns next to the elevators looked like plants out of the Jurassic period.
The elevator pinged and the doors slid open. I tapped my foot to the equally outdated music and briefly wondered what was happening at Dandelion Inn. I didn't want to be pushy, but it seemed I had every right to show up and find out what was going on. I'd been part of the entire ordeal, after all.
I reached the floor for the records office and quickly tried to narrow down exactly what I was looking for. It made sense to start right at the source, in this case, Bonnie Ross. It seemed plausible that I'd find a marriage certificate and that would lead me to Bonnie's maiden name.
I opened the door to the records office. Three blue upholstered chairs sat along a wall with a hand-painted map of Firefly Junction and the surrounding towns. The chairs were empty which was a good sign . . . for me. It meant no one was waiting.
I rang the bell on the front counter and bit my lip to hold back an amused smile as I waited for Orson to come around the corner. His shoes shuffled over the tile floor of the hallway before he stepped around the doorway into the front office. Orson was a well past middle aged guy with tufts of dark gray hair and amazingly glowing skin, as if he exfoliated every day. He was wearing the exact same shamrock green sweater. His nametag declaring him the Records Clerk was sewn onto the sweater. But the thing that stood out more starkly about Orson than anything else was that he moved like a sloth . . . literally. (Although, maybe not, since sloths are not bipedal.) But Orson moved his limbs with fluid grace and careful purpose and always in slow motion. It was as interesting as it was aggravating to watch. Especially when you needed him to find a record and his journey to the file cabinets took an hour.
"Miss Taylor, correct?" Apparently, his memory was much faster than his body.
"Yes, hello, Mr. Nettles. It's nice to see you again."
He still hadn't quite made it to the counter. I wanted to reach forward, grab the sides of his sweater and give him a little tug. Instead of that rudeness, I concluded I didn't necessarily need him to reach the counter to ask the question. Only, he tossed his out first.
"More research for the Junction Times? I thought you did a swell job on that article about the cemetery. And thank you for mentioning my name. I showed it to my mom and she got a kick out of seeing my name in the paper."
"Of course. You were a great help. I'm glad it made your mom happy." I briefly let my mind wander to what a Mrs. Nettles was like and if she moved any faster than her son. And just how old was the woman? Maybe tortoises had it right. Maybe slow movement was the secret to long life. Ugh, silly tangent. "Actually, I'm doing some research on Cider Ridge Inn."
He finally reached his destination, the front counter. Even creasing his forehead in question took longer than normal. "That old place? I thought they'd be tearing that thing down soon."
I cleared my throat. "No, I don't think so. It's going to be renovated."
"Really? Are you sure?"
"Yes, I think so. I know the owner well. What I was wondering—is there any way to get a copy of the original owner's marriage certificate? A man named Cleveland Ross built the place for his bride. I think they were married in the first decade of the nineteenth century."
"Yes, I know about Cleveland Ross." He scooted slowly to the notepad and pen and pulled them closer. With painstaking precision he wrote the name Cleveland Ross on the notepad. I could only figure he needed to write the name down in case he forgot it during the long journey to the file cabinets. With equal care and precision, he added the letter MC to the note, which I could only guess meant marriage certificate.
"For the old records, I need to go to the file cabinets in the back room. The city hired someone to scan the old records into the computer, a high school kid," he said with some derision. "He spent so much time on his phone, while he was supposed to be working, I'm surprised he got as a far as he did." He paused. Naturally, his pauses were longer than the conventional pause. "1900," he said finally.
"1900?" I asked. He'd lost me during the long interlude.
"That's how far he got when he wasn't on his phone," Orson grumbled. "Have a seat and I'll go look for this."
I gritted my teeth and fantasized about shoving roller skates on his feet as I watched him shuffle to the back room. This had probably been a mistake, but I didn't know how else to find out about Bonnie.
After fifteen minutes of catching up on emails and social media posts, Orson shuffled back out to the counter holding a folder.
"What did you find?"
He lifted the folder. "I've got something you might like to see." He continued his snail crawl to the counter. It seemed I would have to wait to know the contents of the folder once he landed at his final destination, the front counter. The oddest thing about Orson's slowness was there didn't seem to be any physical reason for it, no heavy breathing, no signs of a stroke or past injury. It seemed he just preferred not to rush.
He laid the folder on the counter with great ceremony as if he had uncovered the secrets to the construction of the pyramids. "Not only did I find the marr
iage certificate, but there was a birth certificate as well."
My feet did a shuffling happy dance. "Wonderful. You might have saved me an extra round of research. I'm interested in the birth of a baby."
Orson grinned as he turned the folder my direction. "Let me know if you need anything else. It's quiet in here today. I'm thinking I might use the spare time to reorganize my office space."
A flashing image of Orson carrying a single binder from one shelf to another at his natural pace forced me to hold in a snicker. "Thank you, I'll let you know."
I opened the folder. Orson began the long, arduous ten foot journey to the hallway and his office. The marriage certificate had been slipped into clear plastic. The yellow parchment embossed with brown lettering declaring it a 'certificate of marriage' was in surprisingly excellent condition. The ink had faded some and the writing was in that stylish calligraphy of the time, but I could make out the important parts. Cleveland Richard Ross married Bonnie Louise Milton on the seventh day of June 1810.
I was anxious to get to the birth certificate. I pulled out the next plastic sleeve, and instantly, my enthusiasm deflated. The date on the certificate was April 4th, 1792. It couldn't possibly have been Bonnie's baby. Upon further reading, I discovered that I was holding Bonnie Louise Milton's birth certificate. Some quick math told me she was eighteen when she married Cleveland Ross. Bonnie was born in Boston and weighed five pounds at birth.
Orson shuffled back before he even reached his office. "I can make copies of those if you like. The copy machine is just down the hall."
"Uh no, that's all right." I want to be home in time for Christmas, I thought wryly. "Can I just take a piece of this notepad and write down the information?"
"Be a lot easier to copy them but suit yourself," he said and turned back around.
I quickly jotted down names and dates. It was a start. "Thanks again for all your help, Orson," I called.
"You're welcome."
I left the certificates in the folder on the counter and hurried out to the elevator. I'd wasted more than enough time today. I needed to find out what was going on with the Applegate Society. At this point, I had nothing for the paper, and Parker was never pleased when the story was late. I was no longer sure what angle to use.
I stepped out of the elevator. Just as I walked through the glass doors, an ambulance and paramedic raced by. I didn't think much about it until Detective Jackson's car trailed quickly behind the emergency vehicles. I ran for my jeep. I knew that where there was Jackson there was murder.
Or at the very least, trouble.
Chapter 25
Once again, there was a string of emergency vehicles in front of Dandelion Inn.
"Poor Kitty," I muttered as I parked the jeep past all the chaos. It was the same exact scene, only this time with the addition of sunlight. That aspect alone made it all seem less dire than the night before.
Jackson was already inside the house before I drove past. I raced up the porch steps and through the open front door. The biological hazard cleaning crew was still working on the main staircase. The entire area had been cornered off with cones and yellow tape and the crew worked behind a sheet of plastic.
The activity seemed to be centered around the drawing room. Angela and I ran into each other as I turned the corner of the hallway. She dropped the phone she was just about to answer. It bounced behind me. I quickly turned around and picked it up. The call was from the Hamilton and Peterson Law Firm. I handed it back to her. She nodded a thank you and rushed past me to answer it. Whatever was happening in the drawing room wasn't bad enough to keep Angela from answering her phone. I wondered if she was already checking on her brother's estate. He was not even off the morgue table yet but then who was I to judge.
Jackson was chatting with a paramedic when I reached the room. He spotted me and winked but didn't stop the conversation. Barbara was sitting on a gurney looking pale and listless as one of the medics finished her vitals. Kitty was standing at the back of the room looking as if she just wanted to wake up from this bad dream.
I circled the activity and reached Kitty's side. "You look as if you could use a glass of water," I suggested.
"No, thank you, I'm fine." Her hands trembled as she pulled at the sides of her sweater. "I've never had such a terrible week."
"What happened to Barbara?"
"I found her in this room slumped on the couch like a rag doll. She could barely talk and was hyperventilating. Mumbling something about taking too many pills and not being able to go on without Kenny."
Right then, a paramedic walked into the room with a bottle of antacid. I turned my ear to hear the conversation with Detective Jackson.
"This is the only medication I could find in her room," the paramedic said.
Jackson took hold of the bottle and walked over to the gurney. "Miss Simpson, are these the pills you took?"
Barbara opened her eyes with a dramatic flutter. "Yes, at least ten. Maybe twelve she said weakly."
Jackson and the medics exchanged amused glances.
"All right, Miss Simpson," the medic said. "We're going to take you to the hospital, so the doctors can take a look at you."
Barbara relaxed back. She looked small and remarkably older resting on the gurney.
Kitty walked past me muttering something about needing a vacation. I followed Jackson out to the front porch. There wasn't much need for a detective or a journalist at an accidental antacid overdose. Still, poor Barbara looked so distraught about Kenny, I was sure she'd suffer the heartbreak of his loss for a long time.
Jackson and I headed past the stairs and the clean-up crew. "I asked the group to stay in town an extra day until I had more information on Applegate's death. Maybe that was a mistake. At least for the women. They are both distraught."
"Well, you couldn't very well ask only the men to stay. After all, women are capable of murder too." I stopped our progress to the front porch where I saw Rex leaning on the railing smoking his pungent cigar. "Which reminds me—" I glanced around. With the exception of the ruckus on the stairs, we were alone. I turned back to Jackson. "This is probably completely irrelevant, but on the way into the drawing room just now, I ran smack dab into Angela. She was just about to answer her phone. Our accidental crash caused her to drop it. As I picked it up, I noticed the screen said Hamilton and Peterson Law Firm."
"Maybe she was checking on her brother's will," he suggested.
"My thought too only it seems a bit early to be thinking about that. And some previous research mentioned that Martin Applegate, their father, was heir to a large fortune, even though he lived frugally and spent most of his adult life traveling in a Volkswagen bus hunting for ghosts."
Jackson nodded. "Interesting. I'll check into it. Money is always the go-to motive for murder. Good thing I've always got a little bluebird twittering about murder scenes, looking for clues."
"And this time, I didn't even need to hide in a tree."
We walked out to the porch. A cluster of angry looking rain clouds had settled over the valley, and the air had that distinctive scent of precipitation. The medics were just loading Barbara into the ambulance. Angela had kindly volunteered to go with her. She climbed in behind the gurney. Rex watched the scene from the porch.
"That woman had herself so starry-eyed about Kenny, she's made herself sick over it." Cigar smoke trailed up from his nose as Rex spoke. The smell of the cigar was making my eyes water. "What did the coroner say?" Rex asked.
Jackson checked his phone. "Nothing yet but I expect to hear soon. Not sure if it'll tell us much anyhow. The blow to the head was severe enough to make it an obvious cause of death."
Rex blew out a smoke ring. "Like I said, I think that ghost had enough of Kenny fawning over her, staring at her painting, carrying the picture in his wallet. Those spirits can get pretty ornery when they're upset."
"Tell me about it," I grumbled before I could stop myself. I instantly had both men's undivided attention. "I mean, s
o I've heard. I heard they can get really—really—" I squinted at Rex. "What was the word you used?"
"Ornery," he coughed behind the word.
"Yes, ornery. That's what I've heard." Rex bought my stammering response, but Jackson already knew me too well. His perfectly shaped brow arched like a black rainbow. Fortunately, he let it go without further scrutiny.
He turned back to Rex. "Mr. Thunder, I know you're very dialed in to the spirit world, but I can't investigate a ghost. I'm going to have to stick with facts and people still of this world. I hope to let all of you go home tomorrow. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."
Jackson and I headed down the steps. "What's that saying?" Jackson muttered quietly. "Me thinks thou doth protest too much."
"Ooh, how Shakespearean of you," I quipped. "Although, I think the line was 'the lady doth protest too much, me thinks'."
"Yes, well, I tended to skip eleventh grade English class when the Shakespeare came out."
"I see. I suppose you were performing you own version of Romeo and Juliet somewhere behind the gymnasium instead."
He didn't shake his head to the contrary. "Let's just say I probably had way too much fun in high school."
We reached the jeep. Most of the emergency vehicles had pulled away, including the ambulance, but the whole scene was just too familiar. "Is this like that movie where the guy has to keep repeating the same day?" I asked. "I think we were standing right here in this spot." I tapped my driver side door. "And standing right next to this very cool jeep just twelve hours ago."
"You're right. Only you were wearing a blue coat and the loose strand of hair was on the right." He reached up and tucked a strand of hair back behind my left ear. The same awkward silence followed but the duration was shorter.
"What were you saying about Rex protesting too much?"
He glanced back at the house. Rex had gone inside. "It's nothing, I'm sure. It's just that sometimes when a person is guilty, they look for scapegoats and toss out other people's motives."
Murder at the Inn Page 12
