by Stephen John
“Yes, she and I share a love for gardening,” Maxine explained. “I saw her one day at the nursery. We were both looking at the peonies and struck up a conversation. That’s when I saw her trying to carry three plants onto the bus back to Sinful. She didn’t drive or own a car. I offered to drive her home.”
“That was very generous of you,” I said.
“All I have these days, is time, dear,” she said.
“Pardon me, Maxine,” Ida Belle said. “Do you happen to have some 2% milk instead of cream?”
“Oh, of course,” she said. “It’s in the fridge. I’ll get it.”
“No, no,” Ida Belle said. “I know my way around a kitchen. You two talk. I’ll be right back. You all go ahead, continue talking.”
Ida Belle walked into the kitchen. I smiled at Maxine. She smiled back.
“It sounds like you two hit it off,” I said, picking up where I’d left off.
“Oh, we did indeed,” Maxine said. “After we met, we started having lunch once a week at Francine’s. We’d make a day of it. I’d drive her to the general store, the doctor, her tax office . . . wherever she wanted to go.”
“My, that was nice of you,” I said.
“Oh, we were both widows,” Maxine said. “As I said, I have a lot of time on my hands—so does she . . . well, she did. She didn’t drive—it made getting around difficult for her. I didn’t mind at all.”
I heard a loud noise coming from the direction of the bathroom.
“Gertie,” Maxine called out. “Is everything okay in there?”
“Yes, no problem!” Gertie replied. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
We heard another loud banging noise. “Fiddlesticks!” Gertie yelled.
“Are you sure you’re okay in there?” Maxine called out.
“Oh, I’m fine . . . fine,” Gertie called back.
“So, you said you took Emma to the tax office?” I repeated. “Is that the office of Mark Baker?”
“Why yes, it was,” she said. “He’s my accountant, too.”
“Didn’t you find it odd that she visited her tax accountant this time of year? We are near the end of summer—it’s not really tax season. I wonder why she wanted to go there?”
Maxine shrugged, looking genuinely perplexed, “I’m not certain. I sat in the waiting area while they went into the office. I didn’t ask or think to—I didn’t give it much thought. You’re right though, it is odd.”
She smiled at me. Maxine’s body language was not what you’d expect from a person who was feeling threatened in any way by the conversation. She seemed completely at ease.
“I was just so shocked to hear about her passing,” I continued. “I had just seen her last week. When did you last see her?”
“Hmmm,” she said, reflecting. “It would have been Wednesday, last week. We did some shopping at the nursery and had lunch in Thibodaux.”
I decided it was time to see if I could place her at Emma’s house on Friday night.
“Oh, when I saw Emma last, I thought she mentioned she was entertaining a visitor on Friday evening,” I said. “Was that you?”
“Oh no,” she replied, emphatically. “Friday night is Bridge night with the girls. I invited Emma more than once to come but she said she wasn’t really ready for that kind of social activity.”
Gertie came back into the room, followed closely by Ida Belle.
The three of us exchanged pleasantries once again before I closed my folder and stood.
“Maxine,” I said. “It’s been a real pleasure. I have everything I need.”
“When is the awards ceremony?” she wondered.
“Huh?”
She looked at me blankly, “The ceremony—the one where you are honoring Cindy Lou, of course.”
“Oh, the awards ceremony!” I repeated loudly. I laughed nervously. “Sorry, I took a mental trip to the Bahamas. The ceremony is happening . . . uh. . .”
“We don’t have a date yet,” Ida Belle said. “But we’re hoping to schedule a time in the near future.”
“Near future?” Maxine said. “I thought it might be happening right away.”
“You know how these things are,” Ida Belle said. “They require very careful planning—down to the last detail.”
“Well, I guess so,” she replied.
“In the interim,” Gertie interjected, “it is very important that Cindy Lou is not told anything about this. When you get up on that stage to present the award, we want it to be a huge surprise.”
“Oh, absolutely!” Maxine replied, emphatically. “My lips are sealed.”
“Good,” Ida Belle said. “Oh, by the way, when I was in the kitchen, I took a peek out of the window at your lovely garden. You and Emma really did share a love of flowers and plants. That must take up a lot of your time.”
“It does,” she said. “Come, let me show it to all of you before you go.”
Maxine’s garden was beautiful, more beautiful than Emma’s even. It would be easy to see that she and Emma found common ground and formed a bond over gardening. There were so many flowers and plants that she had in common with Emma. It was easy to tell they had been shopping at the same nursery together.
“My goodness, this garden is stunning,” Ida Belle said. “Do you mind if I take pictures of it with my cell?”
“Oh, please do,” Maxine said.
Ida Belle began snapping pictures.
“Well, we should probably go,” Gertie said. “We should let Maxine have the rest of her day.”
“Of course, you’re right,” I agreed. Maxine smiled.
“Well, thank you again, Maxine,” I said, extending my hand. “It was a real pleasure meeting you.”
The three of us walked to the car in silence.
“Well, that was a waste,” Gertie sighed, once we were back on the road. “The medicine cabinet had nothing odd in it. For a woman her age, she doesn’t even have all the normal pills for aches and pains. There is no home office in the house. No diary on the bookcase or bed stand. I don’t think she even owns a computer.”
“There was a calendar in the kitchen,” Ida Belle noted. “It had dates marked for lunch with Emma, just like she said. Nothing else. I also looked under her cabinets for any unusual chemicals. There was nothing.”
“Maxine Reed had nothing to do with Emma’s murder,” I said.
“Really?” Ida Belle replied. “You’re sure?”
“If she did, she is the best actress in the world,” I replied. “She was cool as a cucumber—not the least bit intimidated or nervous that we were there. When Emma’s name came up, there was no surprise or personal concern on her face. All her answers made sense.”
“Did you find out where she was on Friday night?” Gertie asked.
“Yes,” I told her. “She said she has a regular Bridge game that night.”
“That was on her calendar as well,” Ida Belle added.
“We should follow up. I know Irma Shlarp,” Gertie said. “She plays in that Bridge game. I’ll call her and find out if Maxine was really there playing cards.”
“Yes, it will be good to tie up that loose end,” I said. “I’m willing to bet she was there, though. If she was playing cards that night, it would pretty much rule her out.”
Ida Belle was flipping through the pictures she had taken of Maxine’s garden, “You know, I think this garden is even lovelier than Emma’s,” Ida Belle commented.
“They’re similar in many ways,” Gertie said, looking at the photos over Ida Belle’s shoulder.
“They shopped at the same nursery,” Ida Belle noted.
“That’s true,” Gertie said. “What’s that beautiful flower, there? Is that purple or blue?”
“I’d say it was more of a blue. It’s lovely.”
I was curious, “Let me see.”
Ida Belle held up her phone and showed it to me, “It is beautiful. I don’t remember seeing that in Emma’s garden.”
My mind began to wander as Ida Belle an
d Gertie continued to speculate about the flower. I was disappointed that the trip didn’t bear fruit. I was hoping Victor and Bessie had better luck than I.
Chapter Ten
I dropped Ida Belle and Gertie off and headed home. On the way, I decided to stop by Emma’s house and drop in on Victor and Bessie. They weren’t home. I left a sticky note on the door, “Call me,” it said.
As I was pulling away, I remembered the two books Carter had dropped off for me to return to the library. They were the copies of The Crucible and The House of Mirth, the two books I’d brought for Emma to read a short while before she died. They were in my back seat. As long as I was out, I decided, I might as well return them to the library.
I returned the books and was just heading back to my car when I saw a man who looked vaguely familiar. He was in his late forties, tall, strongly-built, with tanned skin. His curly black hair rested in loose curls on top of his head. His three-day-old facial scruff gave him a ruggedly handsome look. He too, was returning books.
Had I seen him at Francine’s? At Walter’s store? I couldn’t remember, but he looked familiar. It must have been the Swamp Bar, I thought. Was he there the other night when I spoke to Victor and Bessie? That had to be it.
I shook off the feeling as I left the library. When I opened my car door, a blinking light from inside my car caught my attention.
I’d left my phone in the passenger seat of my car, and saw the alert notification light blinking. I’d received two texts; one from Gertie; one from Victor.
Gertie wrote, “Irma confirms Maxine was at the Bridge game Friday night. Thinks Maxine may have cheated at cards.”
I opened second the message. It was from Victor. “We are home now,” it read. “Stop by when you can.”
I drove back to Emma’s house. Victor answered the door. He was dressed in gray sweatpants and a faded yellow t-shirt.
“Ah, Fortune. Come in,” Victor said. “Bessie and I are just sitting down for tea in the garden. Would you like to join us?”
“That would be nice, thank you,” I replied.
Bessie was sitting out back, on the patio. The tea setting was already in place. She was pouring as Victor and I sat down. The setting in Emma’s back yard was beautiful. She always kept a beautiful garden, but it was now lovelier than ever. It made me sad to know that she would no longer be around to enjoy it.
I looked at Victor; he seemed melancholy.
“How was your day?” I asked.
Victor shrugged, “Both good and bad, depending on your perspective.”
Bessie nodded, “We are able to rule out Celia Arceneaux as a suspect,” she said.
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “Celia is an evil witch, but she’s not a murdering evil witch.”
“On both points we agree,” Victor said, “especially the part about Celia being an evil witch.”
“Do you think she could have hired someone to do the job?” I asked.
“No. We did wonder about that,” Bessie said. “We hacked into her computer and accessed her bank account records.”
My mouth dropped open, “Without a warrant?”
“Don’t act so surprised, my dear Fortune,” he said. “Much good investigative work stretches the boundaries of protocol.”
“That may have been too much,” I said. “If Carter ever found out . . .”
“He won’t,” Victor said. “Besides, there was nothing to find. Celia lives far more modestly than she would like you to believe. She is not rich by any means but has enough to get by. I don’t think she could afford to hire an accomplice to pull off a murder, even if she were predisposed to do so.”
“So, Celia had no recent large deposits made into her account?” I asked.
Victor shook his head, no, “She’s had no deposits of any kind with the exception of her small pension check.”
“That actually sold it for us,” he said. “It was not Celia.”
“You wanted it to be Celia, didn’t you?” I said.
He tilted his head and looked at me over top of his wire-rimmed glasses, “I’d be lying if said the thought of seeing her behind bars didn’t have a certain appel satisfaisant, but be that as it may, she is innocent. Tell me about Maxine Reed.”
“There is nothing there,” I said. “Maxine Reed was not involved.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that,” he said.
“How can you be certain?” Bessie asked.
I took Victor and Bessie through my meeting with Maxine. I spared no details. The brother and sister both listened intently. I could see Victor pinching his lips together in frustration as he realized there would be no evidence that Maxine had anything to do with Emma’s death.
“Well then, doesn’t that just put the flour on the biscuit,” Victor said in a dejected tone. “We are left where we started, at the beginning.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, when you originally checked into Mark Baker, did you find out what he was trying to hide from me?” I asked.
Victor nodded, “Emma indeed sought his advice on opening an offshore bank account in the Cayman Islands. She had been told that it would provide her a substantial tax relief. Mark counseled against it, saying that the transfer might get the attention of the IRS and if that happened, a full-blown audit or investigation would ensue.”
“So?”
“She gave up on the idea, I’m told,” Victor said.
“So, her money is still in her account?”
“Yes, it is,” Bessie said.
“Where could a woman like Emma get such an idea about opening an offshore account?” I asked.
Victor shrugged, “She did watch a lot of television.”
“That’s going to make money as a motivation for murder more difficult,” I said. “What about her regular bank account? I was told she liquidated all the funds.”
“She did,” Bessie said. “She withdrew its contents, but it was only $1,112.35.”
“Just over a thousand dollars?” I repeated. “Is that all?”
Bessie nodded, “It was normal. Emma was receiving a monthly stipend from the account that Mark managed. It was her way of continuing to be frugal. She didn’t allow herself large sums of money to access easily.”
I sighed.
“None of this points to murder,” I said. “Maybe we’re wrong.”
“We’re not wrong,” Bessie insisted.
“But if the murderer was after money, and her money is still intact, why kill her?” I asked.
“Yet another question we have no answer to, I’m afraid,” Victor said.
“We still don’t know why Emma took that money from her bank, though,” I said.
“And we may never know,” Victor replied. “Perhaps she used it for the high school theater remodel.”
“No, she didn’t,” I told him. “I checked.”
“Then I’m at a loss. The small amount which is unaccounted for is not enough to murder someone over, especially if the murderer knew how much she was worth.”
“I’m sorry, Victor,” I replied. “I was hoping we’d solve this quickly, or at least get a strong lead.”
“Let’s not forget, it is the first day we’ve really started to look,” Bessie said.
Victor sighed and stood. His face bore a look of sadness, “If both of you will excuse me, this day has been a total loss. I’m going to have a stiff drink and read in bed for a while.”
“Of course,” I said, standing. “I need to be going as well.”
“We’ll talk again, tomorrow,” Bessie said.
“I’ll show myself out,” I said.
Victor paused to take in the scent of one of the beautiful plants in Emma’s garden. He looked dejected and defeated. I felt badly for him. I headed toward the door.
Chapter Eleven
I rolled over in bed and looked at my clock. It was 11:15 p.m. I had been in bed for well over an hour but was still not even close to drifting off to sleep.
My cell phone buzzed. I was ex
pecting it to be Carter; it wasn’t. My Caller I.D. read, “Swamp Bar.”
“Hello?”
“This is Nickel, down at the Swamp Bar,” came the reply.
“Nickel, what can I do for you?”
“That wide-load Brit and his snotty sister are down here again,” he said. “He’s been drinking a lot and he’s rambling loudly. I’m worried he’s going to bend some noses out of joint again. I thought you should know.”
“Oh, my goodness. Is Owen there?” I asked.
“No, thank god for small favors.”
“Thanks, Nickel, I’m on my way.”
Twenty-three minutes later I walked through the door of the Swamp Bar and spotted Victor immediately. I was getting looks as I walked in, but not in a flattering way. The women looked at me as though I were a lost cat. My hair was uncombed; I was in sweat pants with a t-shirt. It was only when I saw a few of the men staring at me that I realized I had also forgotten my bra. The chill of my car air conditioner had made that abundantly clear to anyone looking in my direction. Of all places to make that mistake, I thought.
Again, there were people gathered around Victor—almost all women. This time no one seemed to be laughing. Instead, they were were staring silently at Victor, as though he was getting ready to perform a magic trick. As I approached, I heard Victor speaking. He looked as though he was barely able to stand. His speech was slurred. Was he . . . reciting poetry?
“Lo! where the Moon along the sky
Sails with her happy destiny;
Oft is she hid from mortal eye
Or dimly seen,
But when the clouds asunder fly
How bright her mien!”
For the moment, anyway, no one looked as though they were ready to knock him to the ground and pounce on him—that was the good news. I nudged one of the ladies who had been quietly listening to him. She was in a trance-like state. I couldn’t tell if she was just drunk or actually mesmerized.
“How long has he been doing this?” I whispered.
“Over half an hour, I guess,” she said.
“Are you finding it . . . interesting?” I asked.
She shrugged, “It beats hearing my boyfriend bitch about the New Orleans Saints’ defense.”