Death on Covert Circle

by Patricia McLinn

  But it did appear to mellow Fern’s inquisitiveness because she left us alone after class.

  As we returned our props to their cubbies and strapped up our rolled mats, I said quietly to Clara, “About going to the café…”

  It was our post-class routine to get a dessert there. You know, to celebrate how healthy we’d been by going to yoga.

  “Don’t say we shouldn’t go,” Clara pleaded.

  “We can go. We’ll get takeout and take it somewhere we can talk in private.”

  “Thank heavens. After this day, I need chocolate.”

  Not bothering to change back to our other clothes, we gathered our belongings and started to the door, saying good night to Liz.

  “Wait.”

  As Clara and I turned to Liz, our gazes met for a second. Neither of us had a clue what this was about.

  It became more mysterious when she waited for the door to close behind two other students, leaving the three of us.

  Her neutrality didn’t alter as she said, “That assistant manager from the Roger takes Eloise’s flow class tomorrow evening.”

  If my outsides matched my insides, my jaw would be on the floor. Clara might have felt the same, because neither of us responded.

  “In case you wanted to talk to her in a more informal setting. Like you did… Well, I know you found that killer a while back by talking to people. But—” The corners of her mouth turned up. “—you will need to do a few sun salutations.”

  We’d done more than a few in the investigation Liz referred to.

  “No problem,” I said in that mode where you easily agree to something in the future because it feels like the time when you’ll need to live up to the agreement will never actually arrive. “And thank you. Thanks a lot.”

  * * * *

  “If Jacqueline wasn’t already at the top of our list of who to talk to, what Liz said puts her there.” Clara transferred the spoon she was using to eat ice-cream-topped apple crumble to her left hand and noted Jacqueline’s name on her phone’s notes app.

  No, she hadn’t neglected her chocolate craving. She’d eaten a brownie while we walked from the café, past the corner of the Old Main Branch of the North Bend County Library, and found a bench in the otherwise deserted town square … which was rectangular.

  I can’t describe why, but this fact delighted me and made me certain Haines Tavern was my hometown destiny.

  We’d considered going to my house. My unvoiced reluctance was based on the possibility of Teague being there for some aspect of the retaining wall job, as he often and unpredictably was. Clara voted for the square because it was closer, which meant she could eat her apple crumble sooner.

  Good thinking.

  Even when twilight faded, lights from Historical Haines Tavern across Haines Avenue reached us. Between that and the glow of Clara’s phone we had all the light we needed for notes and all the privacy we could want.

  Finally, we wrote the list of people to talk to. No surprise, it included the people we’d seen interact with Rod Birchall today.

  Clara put aside her biodegradable spoon to check the names, ending with “…and the man in the white shirt who was supposed to stay with Birchall’s body, but didn’t.”

  “We’d have to find him before we could talk to him. And to do that, we’d have to figure out who he is.” I consoled myself with my last mouthful of flourless chocolate cake.

  “We can do that. We can.”

  “Clara, we have to be realistic. Some things — a lot of things — the sheriff’s department is much, much better at than we are. Identifying mystery people is one of those. They have access to the store’s cameras. They can probably get video of him, even put out a call to the public if they have to. Plus, probably cameras in the parking lot. If they can read his license plate, then they have him. We can’t do any of that.”

  “Okay, I get it. Play to our strengths. We can do other things, like not interrogating. We’ll start with the people who were there and—”

  “Actually, I’d like to talk to somebody who wasn’t there as soon as we can — the store manager. His name’s Kurt Verker, according to those photos on the wall across from the registers. That phone call he got and his reaction might be the start of the day’s strange activities.”

  “I like it.” She wrote on her list. “Okay. Kurt Verker, Jacqueline Yancik, the woman from the dog park now that we know her name’s Aggie Hickmott, Petey because he might know more about these people, including the woman I think was a principal and we’ll see if he or Millie comes through first. When we pin that down, we talk to each of them. Then Gundy Vance.”

  “Who?”

  “Gundy Vance. He owns Shep’s Market.”

  “Shep’s Market? The little place in town? The guy who owns the original supermarket in town was at the Roger? Today?” My voice kept rising as Clara nodded after each question. “He happened to be on the spot when the CEO of the big rival chain not only was at his closest competitor, but was murdered?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But, Clara, that makes Gundy Vance a major person of interest, at the very least. More like a prime suspect. Why didn’t you mention him being there before?”

  “Why should I mention him when you saw him, too?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Me? I didn’t see—”

  “Sure you did. You commented on him. The guy without a cart or anything in his hands. The first one. Before Foster Utton. You must remember that.”

  I did remember a guy in a white oxford shirt and khakis with only a vague impression of his face. “I had no idea he owns Shep’s Market.”

  “Really? He talks to customers all the time.”

  “I mostly interact with the woman beside the deli counter.”

  I had a momentary reluctance to say I habitually went straight to the section with prepared meals. We’re not talking frozen dinners. They were like those meal delivery deals, only fresh, better made, and I didn’t have to cook.

  “Judy Vance. She’s Gundy’s wife. She prepares those meals.”

  “She’s good.”

  “She is. Great promotion for the market, too. It’s helped them a lot. Draws in a lot of customers.”

  Glad I wasn’t alone in going for the meals. “Helped them? Is the store in trouble?”

  “Seems to be doing better now, but it was definitely in trouble for quite a while. There was a rumor it was going to be torn down before Gundy and Judy came back. He grew up here, of course. But he’d been living in Charlotte, North Carolina. Was high up in a financial company. That’s where he met Judy. She had a catering business. I guess she wasn’t real happy about coming here to run a little grocery store. But his dad had a stroke — actually he’d had a couple, but this one was major. He’s doing better now. Amazing the things they can do with rehab, especially for somebody who works real hard. And Trent Vance’s always worked real hard.”

  “But the store was in trouble under him?”

  “Yeah. He was stuck in his ways and so was the store. It hadn’t been updated for ages. Gran said it was still the way she remembered as a girl.”

  Some might expect a grandmother to prefer that things stay the way she remembered them as a girl. On the other hand, Clara’s gran, Trudi, moved to Belize with her boyfriend, so maybe not.

  “It’s been a real Haines Tavern institution since— Well, I don’t know how long. Forever as far as I’m concerned. But I bet Urban could tell you. All I know is the Market’s been in the family since it started. My grandmother said Trent — Gundy’s dad — never was suited to running the store. That it should have been one of his sisters put in charge, but their father couldn’t imagine a woman running the store and he bullied Trent into it. Guess he was something, Trent’s dad. Not in a good way.”

  “What about Gundy? Did he want to take over the market?”

  “Probably not his first choice. I mean, he had a career and everything, but I get the idea he did it out of loyalty.” She considered. �
�And love. For his dad. I mean, if Trent gave up a lot of what he wanted to do to keep the store going and Gundy let it die, that would be kind of a kick in the pants for his dad.”

  “For all those years, it had no competition unless you wanted to go to Stringer. Then the Roger came. It was new and shiny — then. And with the Market standing still or going backward, some folks stopped going to Shep’s.”

  “I’m surprised. I mean, I know people shop at the Roger, but it’s felt like people hide that as their dirty little secret. I sure was encouraged to shop at Shep’s.”

  “That’s because Gundy Vance has done a good job these past few years playing up Shep’s Market as a Haines Tavern institution. Folks shop civic pride unless they really need convenience and then they go to the Roger. Why are you frowning? Didn’t that make sense?”

  “It makes perfect sense. What I’m wondering is what the owner of Shep’s Market is doing at the Roger? Today of all days.”

  “The very day the Roger CEO was there and got murdered,” she nodded wisely. “But, still, how could Gundy know he was going to be there? Plus, Shep’s doing okay now and why would he want to kill Birchall today.”

  All good points.

  I frowned. “Remember what Birchall said about the Haines Tavern store? That its numbers weren’t as good as they should be? He wasn’t happy with Kurt Verker or Jacqueline about that. And then he wasn’t happy about something else.”

  “The stapler?”

  “Besides the stapler. Something— Got it. He said Shep’s Market runs specials right before the Roger — you mentioned it, too. About Shep’s having a deal on the soup last week. And Birchall said—”

  “Somebody was leaking the specials early to Shep’s Market.” Clara bounced up on the bench. “You’re right, Sheila. If Gundy has a mole at the Roger, someone feeding him the specials and Birchall found out… That could be why Gundy was at the Roger.”

  “Hold up there, Clara. Let’s sort through this. If Gundy has a mole at the Roger, he wouldn’t go to the store to meet with the mole. He wouldn’t want to expose his source and the source would not want to be associated with him.”

  “Right, right. I got excited. You’re right. But Gundy was at the store, so does that mean he doesn’t have a source?”

  “Not necessarily. He could have a source at the store and another reason for being there today. Okay, set that aside for a moment. Because the other hitch is about Birchall finding out. If Birchall knew who the source was, he wouldn’t have threatened Jacqueline if she didn’t find the leak — traitor. That was his word.”

  “You’re right. He’d have skewered the source on the spot. But that’s all the more reason the source would be afraid of being found out. He — or she — had to act right away, so the person took the opportunity right then to get rid of Birchall. Or, if the mole told Gundy Vance, could he have felt he had to get rid of Birchall or be exposed? Except, like you said, he’d be more likely to stay away unless— Oh.”

  “What?”

  “Gundy Vance and Kurt Verker know each other. There was an article about how they were cooperating on a program to get food to people who need it. Say Verker’s the mole. He gets the call about Birchall coming and after he leaves the store, he calls Gundy. Then Gundy decides Birchall has to go and—”

  Abruptly, she drooped, all the air gushed out of her balloon.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I hate to think Gundy might be the murderer. It would be pretty rotten for Haines Tavern.”

  I noticed she didn’t include the Roger store manager in that worry.

  “I suppose it’s moot if we can’t catch the person. But—” She perked herself up before I needed to even try, tapping her notes. “—we’ll start talking to people tomorrow.”

  Dessert and natural light gone, our plan for the next day set, we headed out.

  Clara would drop me off and pick up her groceries so Ned would have his breakfast orange juice. I would do something I usually enjoyed, but wasn’t looking forward to now.

  * * * *

  I needed to call Great Aunt Kit.

  If I’d had boots on, I’d be shaking in them.

  And this was despite my plan being to be an open book — pun intended — with her.

  You’d think I’d be a better liar than I am, considering I’d spent years pretending to be someone I wasn’t, namely the author of Abandon All. Yes, that Abandon All. The holder of the bestseller list throne. The sweeper at the Oscars.

  And now I was pretending I’d never pretended to be that person I wasn’t.

  Before you start jingling handcuffs in anticipation of my confession that I defrauded the actual author of Abandon All…

  Nope.

  Under the guidance of the author, my not-so-sweet, but extremely entertaining great aunt, we were both financially independent.

  She’d spent her professional life toiling in traditional publishing’s midlist.

  Midlist referred to any author whose name you probably haven’t heard of who makes the publishers money. In a lot of instances, their steady earnings in often sneered-at genres such as romance, science fiction, historical novels, mysteries, and westerns, support extravagant advances to celebrities you have heard of, who rarely if ever earn out those advances. Now, household name authors do earn out —

  What? Earning out? Advances? Sorry. I forget not everyone knows the lingo.

  I spent years sharing a New York brownstone with Aunt Kit. Her author cronies came as part of the package. As the supposed author of Abandon All, I was allowed to attend their gatherings on the condition that I paid for all the refreshments. No small bill considering their consumption of food and beverages.

  It was an education well worth the cost. An education in publishing, surviving, writing, and living.

  The lingo was a bonus.

  Advances are not gifts from publishers. More like payday loans.

  They are advances against royalties. That means these loans must be paid back from royalties earned from sales of that book.

  No, you hope it’s from the sales of that book, because if it’s not, you have something called combined accounting in your contract, meaning advances on all included books must be earned back before you get royalties.

  A strong selling book can be stuck paying back advances on books given lousy covers, books lost in a snowstorm in the Rockies, books miscategorized by the publisher. Or any of thousands of other publishing mishaps. That means you can have a best-selling book and not be earning any money.

  Even in the best-case scenario, the bulk of the book’s earnings go to the publisher. All the author’s minority share of goes to the publisher until the advance is paid back. So, again, you can have a best-selling book and not be earning any money.

  Oh, yes, and the payout periods can be six months to a year to multiple years after the copies were actually sold.

  The glorious tipping point when the book has brought in enough money that the author will begin to receive royalties is called earning out.

  It’s a great business.

  Though not necessarily for authors.

  This is why Kit and many friends have chosen indie publishing, which is not for the faint of heart, either.

  Why, I hear you asking, would anyone write under these circumstances? Surely whips and chains would be an easier route to masochism.

  It’s a disease.

  And I appear to have caught it.

  But I’m not telling Kit. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  No time to let that occupy my thoughts right now, though, or it would be too late to call even my night owl relative.

  As tempting as procrastination was, the consequences were not appealing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “I’m calling you before you hear any other way, because—”

  “Another murder.” Aunt Kit’s guesses were legendary. And scary. She didn’t wait for my confirmation. “Good heavens. Your mother’s right. You’re doing something weird out there to a
ttract all these murders.”

  “I’m not doing anything to attract—”

  “This is way past not fair. In all my years—”

  “Kit, murders are not doled out on a merit system. Otherwise, we’d have a lot fewer bad people to deal with.”

  “I don’t mean it’s not fair to the victims, I mean it’s not fair you’re on the spot for another one and I’m not. Heck, they wouldn’t even let me serve on a jury for an attempted murder case. I would have taken that. Though, with my background and interest, you’d think I get one, maybe mo—

  “You’ve had dozens.”

  “I mean in real life. I’m coming out there for a visit. Soon.” Her dark tone implied there better be a murder for her to solve included in the agenda during her visit or there’d be hell to pay.

  “Not that kind of merit system, either. Though if you want to talk about the victim this time…”

  “A stinker?” she asked, cheering up.

  “A prime stinker.” I detailed Rod Birchall’s behavior before he’d disappeared into the back room of the grocery store.

  “Figures,” she said.

  “What do you mean? Do you know something about him?”

  “Yes. You would, too, if you read more newspapers every day.” Kit read three newspapers in print and scanned more for selected topics. She particularly liked business and local papers. “Tell me what you know so I don’t waste time covering things you already know.”

  “He was CEO of the Jolly Roger chain, but not for real long. He was making a lot of changes — none of them popular with employees, especially when he laid off or fired a bunch last week. The assistant manager of the store said he’d come from someplace else, where he’d run a chain that went bankrupt. Idaho, I think.”

  “The PFFT chain.” It sounded like she’d blown raspberries.

  “The what?”

  “The P-F-F-T chain. An acronym for something or other.”

  A certain note of satisfaction in her voice alerted me. “Kit, do you have connections with the PFFT chain?”

  “No. For one thing you said it’s bankrupt. And I didn’t have any before it went bankrupt. But I do have connections to the Jolly Roger board.”