by Meri Allen
As we drove into dappled sunlight around a tight curve, Pru twisted her hands on her lap. “Here.”
I pulled the car as far as I could onto the shoulder of the road and we got out. Pru walked into a blanket of golden daylilies that carpeted a sunny patch not far from the base of a gnarled oak. She absently deadheaded a couple of flowers.
“You planted them, didn’t you?” I touched her arm.
She didn’t seem to hear me. “Hit-and-run. They never caught the driver who did it.”
We stood silent for a few moments. “Who found her that night?”
Pru shook her head. “No one ever said. Someone who lived nearby, I guess.” We stayed for a few more minutes, listening to the far-off sound of children playing at the lakeshore. Pru turned and we got back in the car.
Chapter 36
After dropping Pru at home, the librarian in me asserted itself. I was curious. I googled “Martha Woodley.” As I suspected, there wasn’t much information available about her. She’d died seventeen years earlier, before it became commonplace to list obituaries online. I’d have to look at old newspaper records.
I drove to the Penniman Library and parked behind the gray stone building. Research was a way to calm my mind, to channel the restless energy that was surging in me since my disastrous conversation with Emily. Maybe I could find some answers for Pru.
I almost forgot the stack of Buzzy’s library books. I gathered the books, ran up the stone steps of the library, and slid them into the Return slot. How I loved this old building! Every time I pulled open the door, I flashed back to being eight years old with my own library card and a Sailor Moon backpack Dad let me fill with books.
The librarian, a woman in her twenties with jagged-cut, purple-streaked hair and a raven tattooed on her bicep, set me up at the microfiche reader. Microfiche is a flat piece of film containing microphotographs of the pages of newspapers, magazines, catalogs, and other documents. “Only way to access those old newspapers,” she said.
After she left, I scanned Martha’s obituary in the pages of the Penniman Post, but there wasn’t much there that Pru hadn’t told me.
Martha May Woodley, seventy-two, daughter of John and Octavia Woodley, was born in Hartford, Connecticut … moved to Penniman after retiring as a nurse from the Charter Oak Maternity Hospital.… opened an office and offered her midwife services to, the paper said, “the hippie scene in the Penniman hills.” She’d also sung in the choir of the Penniman Congregational Church and in the Gilbert and Sullivan Society.
She was survived by a sister in Colorado. I checked for records of the sister. She’d died ten years after Martha.
News reports didn’t have much more information beyond what the obituary said and what Pru had told me. Except one detail: Martha’s body had been found by a “summer resident of Penniman Lake.”
Puzzled, I rewound the microfiche and searched for more news stories. Although some articles mentioned that a “summer resident” or “visitor” had found Martha’s body, that person was never named. Why would that be kept secret?
Was the “summer resident” someone who was important enough, influential enough, rich enough that the newspaper would withhold their name from the public? A police report should have that information.
I knew who I had to talk to. Tillie. Did I have the energy? I rubbed my temples, and then my earlobes, an energizing move taught to me by a yoga instructor in Mumbai. Maybe I’d stop at Lily’s Tea Room for sustenance first.
I thanked the librarian, stepped from the cool building into bright sun and slid on my sunglasses.
“Riley!”
That voice. I turned.
“I saw you inside. I was just picking up my holds and thought, that’s Riley Rhodes!” Behind her red-rimmed chunky glasses, Tillie’s eyes shone. She wants to ask me about the murder, I thought. Tillie O’Malley was eager to pump me for a scoop. I was happy to pump back. Perfect.
“How about a cup of tea, Tillie?”
We took a table under a black-and-white-striped umbrella on the brick patio behind Lily’s Tea Room. Tillie stowed her tote bag quilted with a bright pattern of pink and white kittens under the table. She zipped the top, but not before I caught sight of a stack of paperback books.
“What are you reading?” I asked.
Her eyes gleamed. “The newest by Nicole Vickers! I like my thrills.” She showed me a book, then tucked it in her bag next to a romance with a cover featuring a hunky half-dressed guy. Thrills, indeed.
“Hello, Tillie. Hello, Riley, my dear.” Coleman Hennessey, a trim man with a short gray Afro and crisp white button-down shirt with Lily’s embroidered on the chest pocket lay a warm hand on my shoulder.
“My condolences.” His voice was deep with a rich British accent. “Zara and I have been thinking of you and Caroline.”
“Thanks, Coleman.” I gave his hand a squeeze. “Thank you for sending that nice fruit salad.”
“I know Caroline likes it.” Coleman and his wife, Zara, had moved to Penniman after he retired from a career teaching music. Soon after, they opened their tea shop, modeled after one Zara’s family had owned in Reading, England.
Lily’s was one of my favorite spots. Set in a pink and teal Painted-Lady Victorian, its parlor wallpapered with soft William Morris designs, with velvet couches deep with pillows, it had an overall air of cozy gossip. In the winter a fire crackled in the fireplace, and in the summer the patio was hung with baskets of flowers. The restaurant was named for Coleman and Zara’s white West Highland terrier, Lily, the only creature in Penniman possibly as spoiled as Sprinkles. My favorite touch was the portrait of Lily over the fireplace.
“Zara took scones out of the oven just a minute ago. I’ll bring them out. Earl Grey, Riley?” Coleman said.
“You remembered!”
Coleman smiled. “And for you, Tillie?”
Tillie perused the menu. “Today I’ll go for a shandy.”
Even more perfect. The shandy’s half beer half lemonade would be just the thing to loosen Tillie’s loose red lips even more.
Within moments, Coleman set a flowered three-tier tray piled with golden scones and tea sandwiches in the center of our table. Zara bustled out of the kitchen with a tray holding my pot of tea, a matching teacup, and Tillie’s frosty shandy, and set them in front of us. Then she engulfed me in a hug.
“Caroline’s lucky to have you here, Riley,” she murmured.
How Zara could bake and look so cool was a mystery, but there she was in a pristine white apron over a yellow shirt dress, her hair sleeked into a chignon, small white pearls in her ears. “Do you know what she’ll do with Udderly? I hear you’re the new manager.”
News traveled in Penniman. “Caroline’s not making any big decisions right now, but I agreed to keep it running.”
“I’m glad! If you need anything, let us know.” She bustled back to the kitchen.
“Cheers.” Tillie’s eyes glowed as my cup clinked her glass. “So, what’s new with the Mike situation?”
“You probably know more than I do, Tillie.” I decided to butter her up. “After all, you’re working right there in the middle of everything at the police station.”
She cut to the chase. “I heard you visited Angelica.”
I bit into a coronation chicken sandwich. Heaven. “She’s remembering more every day.”
“Suspect Numero Uno.” Tillie rolled her eyes as she slathered cream on her scone. “You found the body, right? Impaled by a murderous maniac?”
I gulped and coughed, and took a sip of tea, but Tillie calmly licked her fingers and reached for another scone.
“Did you read the forensics report?” I said.
“Yep. He’d taken sleeping pills. Mixed them with alcohol.” She waggled a red tipped finger. “Big no-no.”
This confirmed my suspicion but I shuddered. If he’d been conscious and someone had come at him with a pitchfork, he would’ve fought. I didn’t remember any defensive wounds on his hands, but I�
�d verify. “Defensive wounds?”
She shook her head. “He was knocked out by the pill-and-alcohol combo. When I first heard about it, I figured maybe his girlfriend, the tennis player, you know? She’s strong.”
I hated to admit it but I had too. “Great upper-body strength.”
“Like I said, Suspect Numero Uno.” Tillie sipped her shandy. “And Caroline’s Numero Two-O.”
My throat went dry. “Dos.”
Tillie’s eyes glittered. “They questioned her but I don’t think Jack’s buying it. You’re her alibi, right?” She tsked. “Not a very good one. I remember hearing you talking about her scarf. The one that was found at the scene.”
I took another sip of tea, remembering how Tillie had been listening when Caroline and I discussed if I should mention the scarf. I changed the subject. “Fingerprints on the wine bottle?”
“Mike’s and some smudgy ones.” Tillie knocked back the rest of her shandy.
“Pitchfork?” I remembered seeing some farm implements when I went into the barn. Had the killer used one of them? Of course, Buzzy never locked the doors and anyone could’ve gone into the barn. But the killer would have to know the pitchfork was there to use. Despite the overstuffed cushions, I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Anyone could’ve gone in, but who even knew the barn was there? Neighbors. Locals. Campers.
Tillie burped quietly and shook her head. “No prints on the pitchfork. Angelica probably wore gloves.”
“Gloves point to premeditation,” I mused. Any scenario I could imagine for Angelica would be unplanned, a crime of passion after finding out about another paramour. The note … Meet me at midnight. The usual place. “Where are the gloves?” I hadn’t meant to speak aloud.
Tillie regarded me shrewdly. “Good question. Angelica probably tossed them out the window as she drove away.”
A glimmer kindled in me. Where on earth would Angelica have gotten gloves? I was sure she’d been drugged too. Were there old gloves in the barn? Maybe, but how would she know where to find them? Angelica was a passionate person. If she was going to stab someone with a pitchfork, I couldn’t see her taking the time to put on gloves first.
“So what were you doing at the library, Riley?” Tillie said.
Tillie could get me the police report of Martha Woodley’s death. “Tillie, do you remember Martha Woodley?”
Tillie closed her eyes for a moment, treating me to a view of her purple eye shadow. “The hippie midwife? She died years ago. Probably when you were still in high school. You were what five, ten years behind me at Penniman? It was a hit-and-run.”
It was now or never, I thought. “Could you show me a copy of the police report? There’s something strange about her death.”
Tillie’s eyes glittered. I’d hooked her.
I lowered my eyes, to hide my satisfaction.
I knew that police reports were public record in our state but going through any official channels could take months. Plus I knew there were some exemptions to the information in public records—for example, the identity of informants. If that was the case with Martha Woodley, I’d never see the report. However, Tillie could get me what I needed ASAP if it piqued her interest.
Tillie’s eyes gleamed. She patted her lips with the pink linen napkin. “I can get it for you. Come on.”
Chapter 37
I offered to pay and Tillie graciously accepted. We gathered our bags and walked around the corner to the low brick building that housed the police department.
A genial-looking man at the reception desk greeted us. “Isn’t it your day off, Tillie?”
She fluttered her fingers. “It’s okay. I’m helping Riley here with a question about that hippie midwife.”
I tilted my head away, hoping Tillie wouldn’t make any further announcements.
The man scratched his head. “Pru Brightwood?”
Is that how people thought of Pru? Hippie midwife?
Tillie shook her head. “No, the hit-and-run years ago.”
“Oh, Martha Woodley. She delivered my cousin! That was sad when she died.”
My stomach churned. Memo to self: Never tell Tillie anything you don’t want broadcast all over New England.
Tillie opened a door labeled Records at the end of the hall. Inside were ranges of metal shelving stuffed with cardboard boxes. Fluorescent lights hummed overheard as she led me to a shelf, craning her head. “There.” She pulled down a box and muttered as she flipped through manila folders with yellow labels. “They’re organized and cross-referenced by case file number usually, but because there was a death, she’d be in here by last name.” She pulled out a folder labeled Woodley, Martha.
I felt a pang—the poor woman’s death boiled down to papers in a folder.
“So what did you want to know?” She leaned a hip against the table and popped a stick of gum into her mouth.
I took a deep breath. “I heard about her death—a hit-and-run—and was wondering who found her body.”
Tillie opened the folder and took out a sheet of paper. “Here are maps and sketches of the scene where the body was found.” I peered over her shoulder. A quarter mile past the curve in the road where Martha had been struck was a waterfront property labeled Point O’ Woods. I blinked. That was Kyle’s family’s home.
She leafed through the papers. “Here’s the narrative. Body discovered by a man walking his dog. Mr. Nick Aldridge, a visitor from Hartford.” Tillie cracked her gum.
Nick Aldridge. Kyle’s uncle. “Thanks, you’ve been a big help,” I said.
“Any time.”
I hurried back to the street, sick with the thoughts churning in my mind. Had Mike been the father of Brooke’s child? Kyle? I shook my head. He’d always been with Nina. Was Nick Aldridge just a well-connected man who didn’t want his name in the paper? Was it an awful coincidence that Martha was killed shortly after Brooke died and that her body had been discovered by a member of Kyle’s family? Or had there been a conspiracy to silence Martha Woodley? Had Kyle silenced Brooke to save his friend Mike from scandal?
* * *
Driving back through Penniman’s rolling farmland, I realized that I didn’t know what to tell Pru, or even if I should tell her what I’d discovered. It was nothing that would ease her mind about Brooke Danforth. Pru had enough to deal with now.
My mind spun with questions as I turned into Farm Lane. As I drove past Udderly, I could see the interns working so we could have our celebratory dinner. Willow was going up the steps of the farmhouse, holding a platter.
I needed facts, something solid. I had one more stop to make, a test to prove a theory. I pulled into Aaron’s driveway, noting the closed curtains on his windows. The thought of entering that nightmare yard made me shudder, but I parked and walked toward his door. I could only imagine what roosted in the rusty hulks of the cars and piles of trash.
As I approached, Aaron opened his front door.
“Riley! What brings you round here this fine evening?”
I froze for a second then smiled. There was no window in his door, and curtains and blinds were drawn tight across his windows. I’d learned what I wanted to know. He’d seen me on a security camera.
Little McGillicuddy barked at Aaron’s heels as he moved slowly out the front door.
“Nice night,” I said.
“Ha? What’s that?” he bellowed as he adjusted his glasses.
I raised my voice. “You had footage of the night of the murder.”
“Nope. Nope. But between you, me, and the lamppost, I didn’t see anyone on the road anyway.” He shrugged and picked up McGillicuddy, evading my eyes.
He was lying.
“Please, Aaron,” I said. “I’m trying to help Caroline.”
He spoke louder. “I want to help Caroline too. Best way would be to convince her to sell. The real estate gal told me the developers have a good plan and it would even keep the ice cream shop for the new residents.”
“But you’ve lived here so long—”
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“Going south in the winters now,” Aaron said. “My old bones can’t take the winters no more. We’re snowbirds, right McGillicuddy?”
This was going nowhere. “Good night, Aaron.”
I drove back and parked in front of Buzzy’s house.
The sound of conversation flowed out the door as I entered. Caroline, the Brightwoods, and the Gravers were gathered around a buffet spread on the dining room table. As usual, Sprinkles ignored me, but Rocky laced himself around my ankles. I picked him up and he let me nuzzle his soft head under my chin. “You’re home, you beast! Please always come home, Rocky, okay?”
“Come home?” Caroline said. “He was waiting for me when I came in.”
I told her about the ripped screen. “Hairy Houdini’s not the only escape artist on this farm.”
Only last week we’d gathered in a similar way. Now Mike was dead and Angelica hospitalized—gone from a golden athlete to a suspected murderer. Suspect Numero Uno. My head and heart were filled with sadness from the things I’d learned today, but I pushed them away.
I wanted things to go back to normal for a while, forget my scene with Emily, forget Martha Woodley, forget Brooke, forget Aaron’s deviousness. I forced a smile. “How were things at the shop today?”
“Great! Everyone here was such a help.” Caroline smiled, but her eyes were worried. I remembered that she was returning to Boston tomorrow. I decided to hold off on telling her what I’d discovered about Brooke.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” I said.
Our meal was surprisingly relaxing. As if by unspoken agreement, no one spoke of Mike or the investigation. The conversation was light, and laughter flowed. Even Sprinkles allowed a few pats on the head. It was as if, without words, we’d all decided to have one normal night, before whatever happened tomorrow happened.
Tomorrow came sooner than I thought.