by Patti Larsen
“And how long had you and Thea been married?” I wasn’t liking him for the murder, though this was only the first layer, wasn’t it? There always seemed to be more digging to do.
“Three years.” He flushed then, shook his head. “And we only knew each other two months before I asked her and she said yes.” Andrew’s hand shook as he wiped his eyes with the rumpled tissue. “It was a whirlwind, part of the reason Katelyn struggled to accept Thea. But I loved her so much.” He choked up one last time. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“I’m sorry to have to ask you these questions so soon,” I said.
Andrew reached out and took my hand this time. “I just want to know what happened,” he said. “I’ll do anything you need. And so will Katelyn.” Sounded like on pain of massive punishment, so I let that go.
“And you know nothing at all about Thea’s past?” Could this have been something come back to haunt her from her days as an addict?
Andrew’s hangdog expression was everything I needed to know. “I don’t.” He hesitated then, like he wanted to say more, but instead shook his head and looked down at his hands.
Whatever it was, I’d get it out of him eventually. For now, the man had been through enough. Maybe that was a terrible attitude for a sheriff investigating what she now knew was a murder, but it was a great one for a human being.
I chose human, thanks.
“Andrew,” I said as I guided him to the door, “I need to speak to Katelyn next.”
He nodded, more under control than he had been. “She’s likely at the church,” he said. “She was Thea’s assistant, and I know she was planning to start packing her things.”
A bit premature considering this was a murder investigation. I gestured for Toby who hurried toward me and gently led Andrew away while I spun back to my office door to fetch my coat.
Only to come face-to-face with Rose.
“You’re not going to win,” she hissed at me before scuttling away like the revolting eight-legged arachnid she reminded me of. Considering the web of lies and deceit the Pattersons (Marie, in my opinion) had woven around Reading, that meant Rose was in good company.
I couldn’t wait to find a newspaper and squash her with it.
Damn it. Why did I have to go there, to use that metaphor, to tie Rose and the Pattersons and Pamela Shard all into one whirling ball of anxiety?
I didn’t have time to worry about my missing friend at a time like this.
Did I?
***
Chapter Fourteen
Needless to say I was in foul humor when I arrived at the Reading United Methodist Church. I huddled inside my coat, the chill air only getting colder, not typical for mid-December. I scowled at the front door, knowing I was supposed to be getting married tomorrow and that instead I was investigating a murder while now once again embroiled in a blame/fear/anger cycle surrounding the missing newspaperwoman I called my friend.
As I headed inside, the heavy door thudding shut behind me, I immediately spotted suspicious behavior in the whispered arguing of none other than Katelyn Isaac and Dominic Twigg. Unfortunately, the two of them were having their little hissing conversation in the foyer of the church so I missed out on the chance to eavesdrop, though from the guilty expression on the choir master’s face and the dissatisfaction and frustration on the young woman’s, it wasn’t unfolding to either of their satisfaction.
Dominic nodded to me but didn’t speak, exiting swiftly out the side door and down the stairs, presumably to the basement. Katelyn, her generous chest squeezed behind her crossed arms, glared at him as he ran off, her heavily made-up eyes finally meeting mine and her anger easing just a bit.
“What?” From pissed at Dominic to annoyed with me in about a half-second flat? Either hormones were involved or she hadn’t grown out of her teenaged angst despite the digits in her birthday.
“I need to speak to you about your step-mother, Miss Isaac.” If she was going to be a child, I was going to parent her in my best Dad, Sheriff Doomsday Fleming persona.
Sure, it didn’t really work on me but it did on her, surprisingly. Maybe that was why he cultivated it? I’d grown up with him and was far too much like him to let it get to me. But clearly someone not raised by said John Fleming didn’t have the wherewithal to counter it.
I could only imagine her own father, guilt over his alcoholism and the death of her birth mother influencing his choices, went far too soft on her in the beginning and that Thea’s no-nonsense style of doing things must have rubbed Katelyn the wrong way.
First off, what twenty-year-old needed to wear that much eye makeup? Or thick lipstick? Or dress like that for the curves she had?
Oh my god. I was turning into a fuddy duddy. Maybe I needed to get out of Reading regardless of whether Robert became sheriff or not.
“You want to know about Thea?” Katelyn’s attitude shifted, from annoyance to bitter resentment. “She was a nightmare. Dad didn’t see her the way I saw her.” She jabbed one perfectly manicured fingernail at her chest before crossing her arms again. She really needed to take care because the pushup bra she’d chosen wasn’t up to the duty she was demanding of it, especially when she squeezed the girls together in such an aggressive fashion.
Nope, not a fuddy duddy. A total and complete prude.
“Can you be more specific?” Don’t let me down, Dad.
Katelyn bit her lower lip, leaving a red rim on her teeth as she pouted like a child. “She was horrible to me, treated me like a little kid.” Um. Deep breath, Fee. “It wasn’t fair, she made Dad take her side all the time. I hated her.” That was hissed spitefully, you betcha. “I’m glad she’s dead.”
Oh, wow. Okay then. Hello, Suspect #1, so nice to make your acquaintance.
Time to let this petulant girl know the kind of trouble she just landed herself into. “Thea Isaac was murdered, Miss Isaac,” I said. And waited.
Watched as her face tightened in shock, her eyes widened, pupils dilating before she inhaled sharply and covered her mouth with both hands. When she lowered them, she was shaking her head. “I didn’t kill her,” she said.
“And yet, you’re glad she’s dead.” I freaking loved the Dad voice. Seriously. Why had I not used it to this level before? He had it going on. “And had access to your step-mother. And knew she had no sense of smell. Not to mention the murder weapon.” I’d disclosed enough, kicked myself a bit for letting that last slip.
“What killed her?” Katelyn was that mix of horrified curiosity and morbid voyeurism that made me want to smack her.
“I can’t share more details of an ongoing investigation,” I said. “But my point remains, Miss Isaac.” Now, did I think this bratty child without the foresight to not confess she wanted her own step-mother six feet under actually had the brains or the ability to put two-and-two together and find a clever way to murder Thea? Not really. But stranger things had happened and I wasn’t about to let her off the hook. Worst case scenario, she was my murderer. Best case, she learned a lesson and smarted the hell up.
Either way, it was a win-win in Fiona Fleming’s books.
Katelyn burst into tears—crocodile, if you asked me—and ran off in the same direction Dominic Twigg had escaped not so long ago. I needed to talk to him, too, since he’d been at the rehearsal. But I was distracted by the sound of weeping coming from inside the doors to the nave and followed my gut.
I found Ian Rudge bent over the keyboard of the organ, sobbing, hugging and rocking himself. He started when he noticed me watching, wiping at his face and running nose with the cuff of his sleeve. I’d stuffed some tissues into my jacket pocket and shared them with him. He took them with hesitant anxiety, a rabbit in the snow trying to decide if I was a wolf wanting to make him my snack or a deer doing a good deed.
“Are you okay, Ian?” I sat down next to him on the bench, sliding him over with sheer determination and he gave way, nodding down at the wad of tissues in his slender hands, his thin shoulders shaking as
he fought off further sobs.
“T-T-Thea.” He managed her name before inhaling long and deep. “She m-m-meant so m-m-much to me, M-Miss Fleming.” He seemed to have missed the memo I was sheriff now. Not on my list to alert him to the fact maybe he should ask for a lawyer list and I sat there and nodded and listened instead. “I was one of h-h-her kids.” Ian managed a weak smile, slightly bulging eyes huge behind his glasses, face mottled with blotches from crying. Ouch, I felt him. When I cried it was a disaster of epic redheaded complexion issues. “I was l-l-living out of s-s-state with my m-mother. When she died, I couldn’t l-l-live with it.” He bowed in half like his spine had lost the ability to hold him upright and I found myself cradling him against me. “I dropped out of c-c-college, got into d-d-drugs. I finally came back to R-R-Reading to try to start over. And I m-m-met Thea.” He pulled away from me, not out of offense, but so he could meet my eyes. “She saved m-m-my life.” The crumpled wad of tissues made it to his mouth as fresh tears poured down his cheeks. “How could this hap-p-pen to someone so g-g-good?”
He deserved to know. “Thea was murdered, Ian,” I said while he wailed his despair. “I promise, I’m going to find out who did it and bring them to justice.”
Ian leaned into me again and though he had easily a foot on my height he was so slender he felt feather-light against me.
“Only a m-m-monster could kill s-s-someone like Thea Isaacs,” he said in a cold, dead voice.
Wow. Poor kid. I just hoped he wouldn’t fall back into drugs now that he’d lost his second mother figure.
Not my problem. Or was it?
Sigh. Can’t save them all, Fee. As much as you’d like to try.
Ian stood abruptly and left in a hurry, still weeping and I let him go, staring at the multitude of keys in front of me, the organ a foreign object. The tall pipes stretched up behind me, and while I was tempted to poke a finger to see what would happen (grow up, Fleming, this was serious business) I resisted the temptation and stood, heading for the basement and my talk with Dominic Twigg.
The moment I set foot on the bottom step, however, all thoughts of chasing down a killer flew out the window and, with a low cry of happiness, I rushed forward and hugged with great enthusiasm the two old ladies who instantly hugged me back.
“Fiona,” Mary Jones said in her five-pack-a-day voice even though she didn’t smoke, her silent sister Betty embracing me. “We’re so glad you’re here.”
***
Chapter Fifteen
I hadn’t seen the Jones sisters in what felt like forever and repressed instantly the guilt that I’d failed to pursue our relationship past the occasional bumping intos and run acrosses we’d managed over the last year or so. Neither of them seemed put off by the fact we’d been hanging out in different circles, the delighted beaming smiles where once only dour judgment lived was proof enough to me they meant what Mary said.
“Ladies.” I smiled right back, releasing them, for some reason feeling like I just walked through a breath of fresh air heavily oxygenated enough to make me giddy. “You look fantastic.”
Betty blushed just a little while Mary poked me in the ribs. “Liar,” she growled but she was still smiling. “We’re the same old brick houses you’ve always known, Fee. But we’ll take the compliment, won’t we, Bets?”
Her silent sister nodded shyly before pulling me in for a kiss on my cheek that made me giggle. How had I ever thought these two were horrible, negative old woman who, in their sour dislike of me and my replacement of Grandmother Iris wished me ill? I’d spent two weeks when I’d first arrived back in Reading thinking they hated me. Only to discover they were both terrified I was going to fire them and replace them.
It had been a lesson for me, in leaping to conclusions and though I loved to jump when the opportunity presented, it was often with that particular bout of education in mind that tempered my judgments.
I had a million questions for them and was about to leap into the first on the list—namely what they were both doing at the church—when we were interrupted. He huffed his way to us, ignoring me completely, narrow nose in the air, skinny body tucked into a beige wool cardigan that did nothing for his washed-out redhead complexion dominated by far too many freckles.
“We don’t pay you two to dilly dally,” Alfred Welling pronounced in that type of arrogant tone that told me he was a small man in a position of power who had to push his weight around to feel worthy of that role. “I expect you to do your jobs, ladies. Miss Jones.” He turned his snotty focus on Mary who scowled back at him in that way I recognized from my first days at Petunia’s. “The main bathroom upstairs needs cleaning. And Miss… Jones.” He stammered over the repeat of the name, now speaking to Betty who took her cue from her sister and shared her expression, “I’d like to discuss the meal plan. There will be changes from now on.”
Part of me wanted to kick him in the butt just for trying to bully the Jones sisters. After all, they were seniors, elderly and wasn’t this some kind of abuse? And yet, as I stood there and watched them both stare at him with their perfectly matched glares of discontent, I almost laughed.
He wasn’t going to survive. Just saying.
Alfred looked back and forth between them as the silence grew long and heavy, then longer and heavier, until he seemed to crumple under it, a faint sheen of sweat standing out on his forehead. “I expect you to do what’s required or you will be replaced.”
Oh, he did not just present them with an ultimatum. Damn, where was a microwave when I needed one? I wanted to make popcorn for the show.
“Have we failed in some way up to now?” Mary didn’t even bother to address him by his name, just bluntly hit him with the question. “Either of us?”
He spluttered a moment then shook his head. “I’m merely informing you that with the change of guard there will be a firmer hand at the helm of this church.”
“The next time you decide my sister and me are in need of that kind of talk,” Mary said, turning her back on him and facing me, “we’ll be leaving and you can find someone else to put up with your smart mouth, Alfred Welling.” She shook her head as Betty firmly turned to me, too, cutting the young, now discombobulated minister out of our conversation so effectively I almost felt sorry for him. “I knew his grandmother, changed his diapers when he was a wee tot.” Mary’s growling voice didn’t change inflection, factual despite the flash of anger in her eyes. “Imagine trying to tell someone who’s wiped your dirty bottom what to do.”
His pale lashes fluttered while he hovered there, fish lipping as if not sure what to do from here. I chose to ignore him, to do the ladies that service as I talked to them instead.
“Have you been here long?” When had they started working for the church? When they’d left me, they told me they were retiring. I fretted then, worrying they needed the money, but Mary shrugged as Betty stepped in a bit closer, iron gray hair matching her sister’s.
“We got bored,” Mary said. “Figured some light work for the both of us would keep us young.” She grinned at Betty. “And off each other’s backs, right, Bets?”
Betty smiled back before ducking her head.
“We heard your Crew got canned,” Mary said, voice dropping a bit. “This town, Fee, it’s going to hell and it doesn’t need a handbasket to get it there. More like it’s taking a rocket ship.” Betty nodded emphatically along with her sister’s words. “We know you’re sheriff now.” Mary beamed a bit, Betty, too. “We’re darned proud of you, missy.” Well now, that was… wow. Sniff. “Your Grandmother Iris would have thought this was the funniest joke ever told.” I eye rolled as Mary wheezed out a laugh. “And we think we might have some information to help.”
“Please,” I said, grinning in turn. “I’m certain nothing makes it past you two.” I glanced over Mary’s shoulder, surprised to see Alfred still hovering. Was he trying to make up his mind about leaving or looking for a way to regain (well, gain, since he never had it in the first place) control of the conversati
on or was he just awkward and didn’t know when he should exit quietly and cut his losses? Regardless, he lingered and I was okay with that because since he was here? I didn’t have to chase down my next interview, did I?
Meanwhile, Mary and Betty exchanged a look. “Betty saw Thea and Dominic Twigg fighting yesterday,” she said, her sister’s hands clasping each other tightly, big eyes locked on me as if begging me to believe her while the only one vocal of the two went on. “Something to do with Katelyn, right?”
Betty bobbed another nod.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” There it was, Alfred’s attempt to intervene. Mary ignored him, though she did address the question.
“Just because you’re head minister now,” she said, “doesn’t make you God, Alfred. Hush while your elders finish their conversation.”
Whoops. I’d never seen a redhead go that particular shade of purple under freckles before. Not attractive. Or conducive to continuing heart health.
“Thank you, Mary, Betty,” I said before meeting Alfred’s eyes, speaking to him directly before he could blow his gasket. “Tell me, Mr. Welling,” what did one call a minister officially? I didn’t know, so I went with the usual prefix and forged on, “about your relationship with Thea Isaac?”
He flinched then, shook his head. “I don’t have to talk to you without a lawyer present.” He swallowed, like that was final.
“True,” I said, just as Mary spun around and smacked him hard across the arm. He yelped and grasped for the hurt spot, eyes bulging as he stared at her in shock.
“Don’t be a smart mouth, Alfred,” she growled. “Tell the sheriff what she needs to know. Now.”
His head dropped, all semblance of his attempt at control vanishing in the face of the older woman who wouldn’t accept his nonsense for a single second. Smart boy. “I wasn’t in favor of her taking her position. Are you happy now?” He snapped that last before flinching as if expecting Mary to strike him again. But when he met my eyes his were defensive and sullen and his weak chin retreated further, making him appear petulant rather than anyone I would want running a garbage dump, let alone the religious base of Reading’s population. “I was next in line for the job. She was an outsider, an unnecessary addition.” He inhaled, shoulders going back, dropping his hand from his arm and trying, again, to pull his composure out of thin air. “But I am a man of God, Sheriff Fleming. Despite my protests to council, I would never commit murder.”