by Meri Allen
Once we were in the kitchen, Caroline asked, “How did it go?” I still felt unsettled by the interview, but Caroline was relaxed and calm.
No sense adding to her problems. “Not fun.”
“Remember you’re coming with me to the accountant and lawyer today?” Caroline said as she picked up Sprinkles and gave her a nuzzle.
I’d forgotten. “Of course. But I’d better change.”
“I’ll heat up some of that quiche Pru made,” Caroline said.
I ran to my bedroom and tossed on the black travel dress I’d worn to Buzzy’s funeral. I was officially out of clean clothes. All I had in the boxes Paulette had packed were cardigan sweaters and pants that no longer fit. I had thought I’d go to the funeral, then be back home in Virginia in a few days, writing up my next blog. Instead I was in Penniman, Connecticut, where I’d agreed to manage an ice cream shop, one person had been injured and might die, and one had most certainly been murdered.
I recalled a proverb I’d heard from a rug merchant in Morocco: “Man plans, God laughs.”
Chapter 13
I pulled the Mustang into a space in front of a sprawling white Victorian on the Penniman green. Buzzy’s accountant, Wilmer Reyes, rented an office in what had been the mansion’s carriage house. Wilmer had gray hair, gray metal-framed glasses, and wore gray pants, a white button-down shirt, and a gray tie. He hadn’t splurged on his wardrobe or his tiny office. On the drive over, Caroline told me the money Wilmer hadn’t used for a fancy office or wardrobe had been poured into a magnificent wooden sailboat he kept in Essex.
Wilmer took the box of Buzzy’s receipts and didn’t roll his eyes, a testament to his professionalism. His news about the state of Buzzy’s accounts wasn’t good. “Buzzy had invested in an expensive new industrial freezer, which put her in a financial hole. She hoped to grow. Paying taxes was going to be the biggest hurdle.” Wilmer put the shoebox on a shelf. “She was talking about turning the farm over to a land trust to help with her tax situation.”
“Land trust?” I asked.
“Tax situation?” Caroline gulped.
“Her lawyer can tell you more. Basically, the state wants to preserve open space and farms, but understands that farming’s a hard way to make a living, so they encourage putting farmland in a nonprofit trust. It means that you can live on the land and farm it, but the land belongs to the trust and that lessens or eliminates the tax burden.”
I leaned forward. “So if the farm was in a land trust, no one would be able to sell it to a developer?” Caroline and I exchanged glances.
Wilmer said, “That’s exactly why there are land trusts. Towns don’t want to get eaten up by developers.”
Wilmer promised to send a report on Buzzy’s updated account, and we stood to go.
“You’re making the sunflower ice cream, right?” Wilmer held the office door open for us. “I love that stuff. Pray for hot weather,” he said. “People like ice cream when it’s hot.”
As we left the building I muttered, “How much did you pay for that advice?”
Caroline smoothed her skirt and shook her head.
“Caroline, I’m confused,” I said. “You were home a lot. Didn’t Buzzy talk about financial stuff with you?”
“We never talked about money. Mom always said things were fine.” Caroline’s shoulders slumped. “I think she didn’t want me to worry. I wish she’d told me the truth.”
We crossed the green to a white house with tall pillars, the law office of Mike’s friend, Kyle Aldridge. Next door was a beautiful white wedding-cake Victorian with a sign on the front lawn that read Penniman Preferred Properties in gold paint. A pink Mini was parked in its lot. Emily was popping up everywhere.
Caroline followed me through the heavily carved door of the law office into a hushed foyer. Sunlight streamed through a stained-glass window onto a gleaming wood floor. The receptionist, a striking redhead in a beautifully tailored blue linen suit, ushered us into a paneled room with soaring windows and a view of the Congregational church. Her diamond watch sparkled as she gracefully waved us to two leather chairs in front of a broad mahogany desk. Kyle must be doing well for his secretary to afford a watch like that, I thought. I sank into the deep cushions, acutely aware of my wrinkled dress.
“Coffee? Tea? Water?” she asked.
Caroline and I declined and she closed the door softly behind her as she exited.
Kyle entered from an inner office. Today he looked rested, his blue eyes bright, his white shirt and charcoal suit perfectly pressed.
“Caroline. How are you doing?” He gave her a hug.
“Okay,” she murmured. “How about you?”
“Same. Hi, Riley.”
I nodded. Kyle threw a questioning look at Caroline.
“It’s okay to talk in front of Riley. She’s helping me with, well, everything,” Caroline said.
“Sure.”
As Kyle and Caroline spoke about Mike, I took in the photos in sterling frames on a shelf behind him. There was a teenage Kyle with his father and grandfather, gray-haired carbon copies of himself, in front of a sign that read Aldridge for Senator.
In another photo, Kyle and Mike posed in Penniman football uniforms, their arms around each other’s shoulders, a trophy in front of them. A plaque from a fraternity was behind that, then a family photo—Kyle and Nina and two towheaded children at their lakefront home, all in matching khaki pants and soft blue shirts. Nina, model slim, tanned and beautiful, her thick golden hair tamed with a scarf streaming in the wind, Kyle beaming at her as if he couldn’t believe his luck.
“How can I help?” Kyle’s words pulled me back from my reverie.
Caroline took a deep breath. “I need to know where I stand so I can decide what to do.”
Kyle opened a folder. “Well, we’re waiting for the police investigation to wrap up, but that shouldn’t affect anything. You have power of attorney with Buzzy’s affairs, so business at the shop won’t be interrupted.” Kyle’s smile was reassuring. “Mike’s will is simple. You and Buzzy were his beneficiaries, plus there’s a small bequest to our fraternity. Now you’re the sole beneficiary since Buzzy is deceased.” He took a couple of sheets from the folder and handed them to Caroline.
Caroline took the papers, but I wasn’t sure she was seeing them. I glanced over and my brows shot up at Kyle’s definition of a “small” donation to the fraternity.
A glossy contact sheet of photos on Kyle’s desk caught my eye. Campaign signs. My ability to read upside-down print occasionally proved useful. The signs read Aldridge for Senate: A New Generation. So Kyle had decided to take the plunge into politics. No surprise. The Aldridges had three family businesses: a car dealership in Hartford, the law office in Penniman, and politics.
Caroline coughed. “And Buzzy’s will?”
Kyle took up an old-fashioned fountain pen as he spoke. “This is where it gets a bit complicated.” He tapped the pen on the desk and took a deep breath. “Buzzy didn’t make a will.”
“But Mike said he brought her here—”
“He did. We talked about her options. She said she wanted to think about some things, and”—he spread his hands—“she never came back.”
“If she didn’t…” Caroline’s voice trailed off.
Kyle’s voice was reassuring, his smile kind. “It simply means we wait. I’m afraid Buzzy’s estate may have to go through probate. Don’t worry, Caroline. I’m sure it’ll prove to be uncomplicated.”
“I was just at Wilmer’s,” Caroline said. “He mentioned that Buzzy was thinking of a land trust.”
Kyle’s eyebrows shot up. “Wilmer said that?”
Caroline nodded.
Kyle sat back. “Now that I think of it, it was an option we discussed. But Buzzy was leaning against it. She wanted to leave the farm to you and Mike. She especially wanted to take care of you financially, Caroline. Now don’t worry, probate just means that things’ll be up in the air for a while. Because Mike is”—Kyle cleared h
is throat—“gone, and Connecticut law says that relatives inherit, it’ll all be okay in the end.”
Caroline’s hand flew to her throat. “We were adopted.”
Kyle’s expression softened, radiating reassurance. “That’s fine, adopted children inherit. I have all that paperwork. Her estate would’ve been divided between the two of you. Now you’ll be the sole beneficiary.”
Sole beneficiary. It sounded lonely. I squeezed Caroline’s hand.
“Listen,” Kyle said. “I know you’re busy with the ice cream shop. I can go to Mike’s condo and get his mail, see if he had any other paperwork we need.”
“Would you, Kyle?” Caroline said. “Thank you.”
Caroline didn’t speak as we left the office and got in the Mustang. As I turned the key, she suddenly turned to me. “This car rental must be costing you a fortune.”
I laughed. “That’s not what I expected you to be thinking about.”
“Well, you’ve been driving me everywhere.” Living in Boston, Caroline didn’t own a car. She was an anxious driver and only drove a Zipcar down to Penniman during times traffic was light. “You should use Sadie.”
I recalled Sadie, Buzzy’s car, an ancient, boxy, orange VW station wagon.
“I know it won’t be nearly as much fun as this,” Caroline said.
I ran my hand along the Mustang’s leather-wrapped steering wheel. No, it wouldn’t be as much fun, but renting a sports car had been an expensive whim.
“Sadie should be back on the road,” Caroline said. “Let’s swing by and get her now.”
As we turned into Farm Lane, I remembered the campfire last night and told Caroline what the police officer had said.
“People have always camped in the woods around here,” she said. “Like your dad said, my only worry is fire spreading to the dry sunflowers.”
A police car blocked the turn for the Love Nest. Caroline went still. I realized that she hadn’t been up here since her brother died.
Tillie O’Malley, now clad in a police auxiliary jacket, walked up to the car and peered at us through the driver’s window. Her square face and pug nose made me think of a bulldog. She’d changed into a subdued uniform of khaki pants and a blue polo with Penniman Auxiliary embroidered on the chest, but she’d accessorized with a stretchy headband in a pattern of blue Penniman police shields. I was certain that headband wasn’t regulation.
“Hey, Caroline, Riley,” Tillie said.
“We just saw you at the station. You work”—I hesitated—“in the field too?”
Tillie preened. “Jack, I mean Detective Voelker, encouraged me to join the Auxiliary. It gets me out into the community.” She swaggered a bit with her hands on her hips. I gave thanks she wasn’t wearing a sidearm.
The loosest lips in Penniman. I didn’t know how she held onto her job. Well, actually, I did. Her father had been Penniman police chief, and though he’d retired to Florida, his name still commanded a lot of respect. Tillie had washed out of the police academy years ago—she couldn’t keep a secret to save her life. Voelker was wise—it was better to have Tillie out here where she was less likely to overhear confidential information.
Tillie jutted out her chin. “We’re keeping the road closed. Lots of news vans have been coming through, using the house and barn for backdrop on the Angelica Miguel story. I can’t stop them because Farm Lane’s a public road, but this crossroad is on your property so I’ve blocked it off. Caught one guy trying to sneak into the barn. Creeps.”
Tillie would be a gold mine of information. “What have you heard about Angelica Miguel?”
Her radio squawked; she held up a finger, listened, then turned it down. “She’s at Eastern Hospital. Hey, you found her, right? Yeah, her leg’s messed up and she lost a lot of blood. The doc said she was knocking at death’s door but you found her in time. She’ll survive.”
“Glad to hear it.” I think. Unless she killed Mike.
“She’ll survive to go to jail,” Tillie said.
Tillie’s words sent a jolt through me. Was she parroting what she’d heard at the police station? Had the police found evidence that pointed to Angelica? The note I’d found … was it part of a game she and Mike had been playing? But still, having seen Mike and Angelica together, I had doubts.
Caroline leaned across me and put my thoughts into words. “I can’t believe she killed Mike.”
Tillie shrugged. “She’ll be questioned as soon as she’s up to it. Everyone wants to know why she’d kill her boyfriend.” She guffawed. “Well, we’ve all had a few times we wanted to kill a boyfriend, right? Good motive. Who’d want to kill Mike, right, except for all those ex-girlfriends?”
At Tillie’s thoughtless comments, Caroline winced and leaned back in her seat. I squeezed her arm but remembered what she’d said in the kitchen the night Mike died. I could kill him. I remembered the way Darwin looked that same night.
Caroline leaned across me again. “Is it okay if we take my mom’s car out of the barn?”
“I’ll have to check,” Tillie said. “Might take a while.”
“Okay,” Caroline said. “Detective Voelker has my number. Please have him call me.”
Chapter 14
“Tillie sure is chatty,” Caroline said as I drove down Farm Lane to the shop.
“Loose lips sink ships,” I said. That was another of Buzzy’s old sayings.
“Riley, let’s stop a sec. I have to check on Sprinkles.”
I parked the Mustang and as we ran up the front porch steps I picked up a grocery bag someone had left by the door. I opened it to find two loaves of banana bread wrapped in tinfoil. I handed her the accompanying card.
Caroline read it. “How sweet. One of Buzzy’s customers left the bread for us.” She shook her head. “We can’t eat all the food we have already. I’ll bring them over to the farmhands later.”
We changed into work clothes, Caroline fed Sprinkles, and we sprinted down to the shop.
As Caroline went to serve customers, I mentally pushed aside the conversation with Tillie. It was time to compartmentalize and be the manager. I remembered Buzzy’s calendar. I’d have to check to make sure there weren’t any more special-order surprises.
Brandon was at the ice cream chiller, placing a tub on a cart under the spout. Brandon’s bony shoulders moved back and forth as he bopped to the music on his headphones.
In Buzzy’s office, I flipped through her calendar. On tomorrow’s page she’d written: Preserve Penniman 7pm. Community Hall. I looked up Preserve Penniman on my phone; the group was dedicated to “preserving Penniman’s historic and natural character.”
I considered what I’d learned from Kyle and Wilmer. Buzzy was looking into land trusts the whole time Mike was planning to develop the farm. The sale would bring in millions of dollars.
I leaned against the desk next to the empty space where the pile of bills had been and wondered if Caroline had considered how much money the sale of the farm could net. I rubbed my tired eyes. One thing I knew about Buzzy and Caroline: money didn’t motivate them.
It motivated Mike.
I’d go to the Preserve Penniman meeting.
I flipped through the calendar to Saturday. Buzzy had drawn a big sunflower around the date: “Sunflower Celebration. D-day!” On Sunday she’d scribbled, “Willow BG for pen.” What on earth did “BG” mean? I recalled Willow’s sketch of Hairy Houdini. Oh, baby goats. I had to start thinking like a farmer.
I flipped through the rest of the calendar, checking for more special orders. None in August or September or October—my breath caught. There was a big purple heart looping around Halloween and the words “Riley’s birthday.” Oh, Buzzy.
“Uh, help … Help? Help!” Brandon shouted.
I rushed to the workroom to find Brandon looking wildly from side to side as ice cream spewed from the chiller onto the floor. I ran to the machine, grabbing an empty tub as I went, then slammed my hand onto the on/off button by the chute. The flow of ice cream didn�
�t stop. Brandon pulled aside his overflowing tub and I set mine in its place, sidestepping to avoid the puddle of golden vanilla ice cream.
I yanked the power cord out of the wall and the machine ground to a halt.
“I don’t know what happened!” Brandon yelped. “It went crazy! I think it’s possessed?”
“Hang on.” I turned the power back on. Ice cream flowed out. I tried the on/off button again. This time the machine turned off.
Brandon blushed to the roots of his lank dark hair. “Maybe I pressed it too many times?”
I patted his shoulder. “No, I think it’s wonky.” Was that a technical term?
Flo hurried into the kitchen. “That machine acts up sometimes. You have to know how to press the button just right.” The way she said “just right” made me think of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, and I remembered Flo had taught kindergarten for forty years.
“Let’s get this mopped up. I think we can rescue the ice cream. What kind were you making, Brandon?” I asked.
“Ah, sunflower?”
Ah, sunflower. As Brandon mopped, I checked the Book of Spells and found the recipe for sunflower ice cream. I double-checked the mix-in ingredients Brandon had gathered by the machine—he had twice as much sunflower seeds and half as much honey as the recipe called for. At least this disaster gave me a chance to correct the ingredients.
Each layer had to be done in a specific order: honey, caramel, and shelled and roasted sunflower seeds interspersed with rich golden vanilla ice cream. It would’ve been faster and easier to layer in the mix-ins as the ice cream flowed from the machine, but I scooped each layer, drizzled honey and caramel, sprinkled in sunflower seeds, and then carried the heavy tub to the deep freezer. If anything, this job was whipping my arms into shape.
Brandon did do a good job mopping up, I’d give him that, and for the next few hours everything went smoothly. Flo wished us good night as she breezed out at eight. I glanced at the clock. One hour to go. Just before closing, I had to give out the golden ticket, a tradition Buzzy instituted to manage long lines. If the line went out the door, as it did tonight, ten minutes before closing Buzzy gave the person at the end of the line a sign to hold up. That person had to tell everyone who came after them that we were closed. It’s funny how well it worked. The golden-ticket holder then got a free ice cream for their trouble.