The Little Tombstone Cozies Box Set

by Celia Kinsey

  “She hit them,” Grandma Flo roused herself enough to say, “She crashed right into them and left them lying there.”

  “Where, where did she leave them?”

  Grandma Flo wasn’t listening; I might as well have been talking to myself.

  “Then she run away to have babies. Didn’t have any husband, though—“

  I was convinced that Grandma Flo was talking about Abigail, but nothing I asked could induce her to come up with a name.

  I tried feeding Flo a couple more chocolates and tried again, without success, to get her to come up with a name. I finally abandoned that line of questioning.

  “What did that bad girl do with those people, after she hit them with her car?” I asked.

  “That Jezebel buried them.”

  “You mean the bad girl buried them?”

  I found it very hard to believe that sixteen-year-old Abigail would have been capable of disposing of the Halversons’ bodies alone. I also wondered why Grandma Flo was referring to Abigail as a Jezebel. Perhaps it was because Abigail had been an unwed mother, but Flo had never been the type to talk so disrespectfully of other women.

  “No, that Jezebel did it,” Flo said.

  “Not the girl who hit the people with her car?”

  “No, Ricky’s Jezebel. She buried them.”

  Now we were getting somewhere. Mrs. Gonzales’s testimony would never stand up in a court of law, but I was convinced she’d just told me that Nancy Flynn had been the one who’d buried the Halversons’ bodies under the trailer court at Little Tombstone.

  I had already fed Grandma Flo too many chocolates, so I closed the bag and sat beside her, holding her hand until she dozed off again.

  By the time I left, I was more confused than ever about what my next move should be.

  When I got back to Little Tombstone, Juanita informed me that my cousin Georgia had been there looking for me.

  Georgia had left me a message to meet her at Mr. Wendell’s law office as soon as I got in. I wondered why she hadn’t just texted me.

  I went straight to Mr. Wendell’s office. When I came into the waiting room, Georgia’s son Maxwell was sitting in one of the chairs, tearing pages out of a back issue of Farm and Ranch and folding them into paper airplanes. I couldn’t help wondering if Mr. Wendell was a Farm and Ranch subscriber or if a forgetful client had abandoned the magazine in the waiting room.

  “Your mother in there?” I asked Maxwell.

  He nodded but didn’t speak. Maxwell’s not what you might call a verbal child, although Georgia claims he has a genius-level IQ.

  I knocked on the door to Mr. Wendell’s office, and Georgia opened the door to let me in. Mr. Wendell directed me to a chair beside Georgia.

  “Your cousin has something she’d like to get off her chest,” Mr. Wendell said.

  Georgia didn’t say anything.

  “Go ahead, Miss Montgomery,” Mr. Wendell prompted. “It’s better if you say it in your own words.”

  “I’m dropping the contest to the will,” said Georgia.

  “Oh,” I said. “That’s good to know.”

  “Before our grandmother died, I was just going along with what Freida was pushing for. She insisted that the only reason Grams cut us out of the will was that she was going senile and didn’t know what she was doing. Now I can see that was a lie,” Georgia continued. “I had no idea things would get so out of hand.”

  “Is it true you were trying to get power of attorney before Aunt Geraldine died?” I asked.

  “Yes, and I don’t feel very good about that, either. When it turned out that Grams was completely in her right mind, I went behind their backs—”

  “Whose backs?”

  “My mother’s and Freida’s. I put a stop to the whole thing.”

  “But you still contested the will?” I couldn’t help saying.

  “I did,” Georgia admitted. “I didn’t think it was fair for you to get everything, even if Grams did have a right to be angry.”

  “I didn’t think it was fair, either,” I said, “for what it’s worth.”

  Mr. Wendell cleared his throat loudly like he thought I’d said something I shouldn’t.

  “I’d like to talk to my cousin alone, if you don’t mind,” Georgia told Mr. Wendell.

  She had a lot of nerve, kicking a lawyer out of his own office, but Mr. Wendell went without a murmur.

  “I’ve decided to tell you everything I know about Freida’s death,” Georgia said after the door had closed behind Mr. Wendell.

  “I’ll save you the trouble,” I said. “Nancy Flynn was the one who killed Freida.”

  Georgia stared back at me for the space of three breaths before she spoke.

  “Nancy Flynn shot Freida,” Georgia said. “But how did you know?”

  “I didn’t know for sure, but she was certainly my most likely suspect. What I don’t understand is why she would do it.”

  “It was that kid, Marco. Juanita’s dishwasher,” Georgia said. “Freida was about to kill him.”

  “Why would Freida want to kill Marco?” I asked.

  “That I don’t know,” Georgia admitted, “but I know what I saw with my own eyes.”

  “You were there in the room?”

  “Just outside the door,” Georgia said. “I arrived fifteen minutes before Freida had asked me to meet her. She didn’t even know I was there. My sister had asked me to meet her in room one of the motel. She said she’d made a discovery. Freida had this nutty idea that our grandmother had been stashing gold pieces in various places around Little Tombstone. A few months back, Freida showed me pictures of pages out of notebook she claimed to be a record of where our grandmother had been hiding a fortune in old gold coins. According to Freida, Grams had gone so far as to hide gold inside that old cuckoo clock of hers.”

  Georgia clearly didn’t believe the story about the hidden gold, and I didn’t think it was the time nor place to enlighten her on that point.

  “What happened when you reached the motel?” I asked.

  “As I was coming up to the door of room one, I heard someone sobbing and pleading for his life,” Georgia said. “That door has the knob busted off, so I pushed on the door, and it swung open just enough that I could peek through the crack.”

  Georgia paused. I think she was summoning her courage to go on.

  “When I looked inside,” Georgia finally continued, “I saw Juanita’s dish boy, Marco, kneeling on the floor in front of Freida. She had that old revolver of Uncle Ricky’s to his head. He was begging her not to shoot, saying he wouldn’t tell if she’d let him go. I don’t know what that was all about, but apparently, Marco had some pretty serious dirt on my sister.”

  “I think I know what it was,” I told Georgia, “but carry on with your story. I’ll explain later.”

  “As I was standing there, trying to decide if I should dial 911 or burst in—I was scared that if I startled Freida, she’d end up shooting the poor kid in the head whether she’d ever intended really to kill him or not. While I was hesitating, Nancy Flynn pulled up next to the motel.”

  “Nancy likes to park there,” I said. “I’ve never known her to use any other spot.”

  “I darted around the corner and motioned to Nancy to be quiet, then I returned to the door of room one. I expected that Nancy would follow me, but instead, she circled around to that broken window on the side of the motel and looked inside. Just as I reached the door again, intending to do something to stop Freida from hurting that boy—I wasn’t sure what—Marco took matters into his own hands; he grabbed Freida by the ankles, throwing her off balance. About the same time Marco wrestled the gun away from Freida, one shot went off, and maybe a second or two later, there was another one. Freida slumped onto the mattress. I think she died instantly; at least I hope so.”

  Georgia had started to cry. I looked around Mr. Wendell’s office for tissue, but there wasn’t any.

  “I’m sure she didn’t suffer,” I said.

 
; Georgia got herself back under control and went on, “I honestly don’t know which shot killed her.”

  “You’re sure Nancy was outside the window when the shots went off?” I asked.

  “Positive.”

  “It had to have been her,” I said. “There was one other bullet in the motel room. I found it lodged in the woodwork around the window on the wall opposite. I haven’t heard back from the police on the forensics, but I bet they will determine that it came from Uncle Ricky’s revolver.”

  I don’t know why that revelation was a relief, but it was. Nevertheless, the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s department was destined to have some bewildered detectives.

  “But how did Freida end up with Uncle Ricky’s antique revolver in her hand?” I asked Georgia. “Was Marco the one who put it there?”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “It was Nancy,” said Georgia. “I asked her to put Gramp’s revolver in Freida’s hand. I wanted Freida’s death to look like a suicide.”

  Georgia was crying in earnest now and making no effort to hide it. She had to stop for several minutes to regain her composure.

  “But Nancy put it in the wrong hand,” I pointed out. “Why didn’t you correct her?”

  “There wasn’t time,” Georgia said. “We heard someone coming—”

  “Oliver, probably.”

  “So we both ran. I figured no one would notice that the gun was in the wrong hand.”

  “I noticed. Why did you ask Nancy to make it look like a suicide?” I asked Georgia. “I mean, it’s easy to see the upside for Nancy, but why would you—"

  “How could our mother live with knowing she’d raised a daughter who died because she got shot by someone who was just trying to keep her from killing some poor kid?” said Georgia.

  I could understand Georgia’s line of reasoning. I’d just seen the state Abigail was in, and that was without even knowing what horrible acts her late daughter was in the act of committing when she died.

  “But the detectives only found one set of fingerprints on Uncle Ricky’s revolver,” I said. “At least that’s what they told me.”

  “Whose fingerprints?” Georgia asked.

  “Mine.”

  “Marco never touched the gun,” my cousin explained. “The revolver went off when Freida dropped it as she fell. It was a chilly day. Nancy was wearing gloves. So was Freida. No prints.”

  I had a flashback to my Aunt Geraldine’s apartment, the day Freida asked me to take out Uncle Ricky’s revolver and then declined to touch it herself. I’d thought it was slightly odd at the time. Looking back on her actions now, it was clear she must have been planning for days, at least, to kill Marco with her late grandfather’s revolver and make it look like I had done it. The only reason she’d asked to see that gun was so she could be sure my prints were on it.

  We lapsed into silence after that. I think we were both trying hard not to relive the scene over in our heads and failing miserably.

  “I have a favor to ask,” Georgia finally said.

  “Wait,” I said, “before we change the subject, what did Marco do after Nancy shot Freida?”

  “He immediately ran out of the motel room, nearly knocked me over.”

  He must have gone straight to the back of the Bird Cage and started throwing up. I couldn’t blame him.

  “Marco must know you saw everything?”

  “Yes. He saw me, but I can’t say for certain that he saw Nancy.”

  “So it’s entirely possible that Marco thinks the shot that killed Freida came from Uncle Ricky’s revolver?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “How would you feel about going up the hill to the Flynn ranch and having a chat with Nancy?” I asked Georgia. “I’m not sure what I want to do with what you’ve told me, but I think Nancy has a right to explain herself.”

  “You can’t do that,” Georgia said, her voice rising. “You can’t tell anyone else anything I’ve said today. I told you everything in confidence.”

  “I know that,” I said, “but it’s not like we’d be disclosing any new information to Nancy.”

  Not much new information anyway.

  “I guess it can’t really make the situation worse,” Georgia relented.

  I suspected that the same line of reasoning had factored into Georgia’s decision to tell me what had really happened in room one of the motel.

  “What was the favor you wanted to ask me?” I asked Georgia.

  My cousin stared blankly back at me.

  “You said you wanted to ask me a favor?” I repeated.

  Georgia hemmed and hawed and made several false starts before I dragged it out of her. The favor she wanted was permission to move into Little Tombstone with Maxwell. She was afraid, if she continued living with her mother, she’d eventually spill the truth and break her mother’s heart.

  Put like that, I could hardly say no.

  “You and Maxwell will have to share Aunt Geraldine’s second bedroom,” I told her. “I’d be happy to give up the bigger bedroom for you, but I don’t think Earp would take kindly to being moved out of his habitual haunt.”

  Georgia and I walked out of Mr. Wendell’s office to find Maxwell and Mr. Wendell having a paper airplane-flying contest. I found myself warming to the man. Maybe that Farm and Ranch subscription really was his, bought for the benefit of his agriculturally minded clients.

  After we left Mr. Wendell’s office, I insisted that we go straight up to see Nancy Flynn. I didn’t want to give Georgia a chance to lose her nerve. I suggested we leave Maxwell with Juanita at the Bird Cage. It was several hours until the supper rush, and Maxwell could entertain himself in the dining room with the basket of toys Juanita kept behind the checkout counter for when her grandchildren stopped by for a visit.

  To my surprise, Georgia went docilely along with my plan. That is, she went docilely along with my plan until we reached the locked gate to the Flynn Ranch.

  We’d driven up there in my rental car, and I was personally prepared to abandon the car, climb the gate, and walk the remaining mile up to the house.

  Georgia refused.

  “Didn’t you read the sign?” she demanded.

  “What sign?”

  “The one that says: ‘Trespassers Will Be Shot.’”

  “We’re not trespassers,” I pointed out. “We’re neighbors.”

  Georgia argued that seeing as we planned to clamber over a locked gate, Nancy might not see it that way.

  Georgia and I sat there waiting in the car for ten minutes before Nancy’s truck came down the drive. When she reached the gate, Nancy got out of the truck and started to swing it open.

  “Nancy,” I said, sticking my head out the window.

  “What do you want?” she snapped back. She looked irritated, but when she spotted Georgia in the passenger seat, she switched to looking scared.

  “We want to talk to you,” I said.

  “You’d better come up to the house, then,” Nancy said. “You head on up, and I’ll shut the gate behind me.”

  Nancy drove through the gate and started backing around while I started up the rocky drive to the house.

  “I’m scared,” said Georgia.

  I figured that Nancy was just about as scared of Georgia as Georgia was of Nancy, but I was pretty sure there was no convincing my cousin of that.

  When we got to the house, I parked off to the side, nose out. I think I was trying to prepare for a quick getaway, not that I was scared of Nancy or anything.

  I really wasn’t afraid. Nancy might have killed Freida—but given the same decision to make, assuming I’d have had Nancy’s skills as a precision marksman—I might have done the same.

  Nancy didn’t invite us in. Instead, we all sat in a row of rockers on her front porch and rocked back and forth quietly for a few minutes before I couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

  “I suppose you know why we are here, Nancy,” I said.

  “You want me to turn myself in?”

>   “No!” said Georgia.

  “I’m not sure what I want,” I said. “Perhaps it would be best if you explain to us exactly what happened.”

  “It was all over in less than three minutes,” Nancy said. “I pulled up, saw Georgia peeking into that motel room. She looked terrified, so I figured something bad was going on in there, so I went around to the window to assess the situation. When I saw that poor kid with a gun to his head, I knew I had to do something. I was trying to decide if I dared give Freida a warning to drop her gun when the kid went for her ankles. Just as the kid tackled her, Freida saw me in the window. I had a bead on her head. She must have pulled the trigger, just as she was knocked off her feet and dropped the gun. I’m still not certain which of us fired first. The bullet from the revolver went wild, but mine—"

  Nancy broke off, unable to speak.

  “I know you believed you were acting for the best,” Georgia said.

  My cousin was sitting stiffly in her rocker, stone still and dry-eyed. I guess she’d run out of her quota of tears for the day.

  “I’ve run over the thing in my mind a thousand times,” Nancy said. “One minute I’ll be wishing I hadn’t pulled the trigger, but then the next minute I’ll be telling myself that if the kid had died, I know I’d be wishing I had.”

  “I think that’s a perfectly normal reaction,” I said. “But why didn’t you stick around and tell the police what really happened?”

  “Don’t know,” Nancy said. “I honestly don’t. I panicked, I guess. I’ve shot plenty of animals in my time, but never—”

  She broke off again.

  “It’s too late to turn myself in now,” Nancy finally said. “So I’m begging you both to keep this incident to yourself.”

  Driving down the hill from the Flynn Ranch, I told Georgia I couldn’t imagine what would induce Nancy to turn herself in, but that very afternoon the unthinkable happened.

  Marco Fernandez had his father drive up to Santa Fe, where he walked into the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s department and announced to the desk sergeant that he was prepared to confess to killing Freida Montgomery.

  Chapter Thirty

  As soon as I heard that Marco had confessed to killing Freida, I had Juanita call Nancy and tell her I needed to talk to her.