by A W Hartoin
“Nope,” I said.
“What do you mean? Did The Girls say something different?”
I told him what I found out and he booted up his computer. “$120,000? There’s no record of that.”
“No kidding.”
“You think that’s why Maggie was murdered?”
“Yes. Absolutely,” I said.
Spidermonkey began typing and calmly said, “That doesn’t make sense to me. Everything you found out points to a serial killer, not a financial motive.”
I came into the kitchen and slapped Maggie’s crucial notebook on the breakfast table and everyone jumped a foot, except Fats. She wasn’t there.
“It can be both,” I said.
“Can it?”
“I don’t know how, but yes. It’s both a serial killer and a financial thing.” I sent him Maggie’s picture and gratefully accepted a fresh cup of steaming black coffee. “Irene, do you know any Shipleys?”
“There are some Shipleys at church. I don’t personally know them, other than to say hello.”
“Can you find out if any of them are related to Desmond and Mary Shipley?” I asked.
Irene said she would find out and Spidermonkey said, “Shipley? The mushroom hunters?”
“Yes. I want to know if they told their family anything about Maggie’s body.”
“I can find descendants.”
“Irene’s on it.”
Irene gave me a thumbs-up and grabbed her phone. Clarence raised her hand. “What happened? Did you find out who did it?”
“Not yet. Hold on,” I told her. “Where’s Fats?”
“In the gym. She ate a croissant.”
I rolled my eyes. “Spidermonkey?”
“I’m here, looking at those taxes. Myrtle really confirmed that they donated that money?”
“She did,” I said. “Are you doubting my detective work?”
“This is big, Mercy.”
I went over to Irene’s fab casserole and breathed in the heady scent. Delicious. “I think so. Totally worth being kept up all night.”
“Someone in the church stole that money,” Spidermonkey said.
“Maybe.”
“There’s no maybe about it. I’m looking at this photo you sent. It was taken in front of the asylum. I recognize the doors.”
“I figured. The Girls were supposed to join the board. Maggie’s death put a stop to that. Whatever happened to her started with that money and turned into something else. I have to talk to the Shipleys. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”
“Mercy, this photo says a lot. Look at it.”
I looked and piled a plate high with casserole. Oh, the calories. “I’ve seen it. The church ran the asylum. I get that, but an accountant may have diverted the funds, right?”
“Sure, but the church is all over this. They ran the place. Bishop Fowler is right there at the center. You think that man didn’t know how much the Bleds were giving to his institution?”
I forked the best casserole ever into my face and looked down at the picture. The answer was maybe. Fowler could be a trusting idiot and let others handle things, but his behavior after Maggie disappeared was off. He came off like a man with something to hide.
“So he knew Maggie was onto the money,” I said. “Can you look at him? Money-wise, that is.”
“I’m on it, but the clergy doesn’t pay taxes. I’ll have to find his bank accounts. If he took the money, he spent it on somebody.”
Irene wrote down a number on a pad and then dialed again. She smiled and nodded at me. I had a team and it felt good.
“How about the board?” I asked. “Can you find out who they were?”
He already had and could name everyone in the photo, except the man with the missing leg.
“That’s interesting,” I said.
“He might be the husband of the woman next to him, Helen Smith,” he said. “Neither of them look very happy.”
“What’s her deal? Please tell me she was loaded for no good reason.”
“I wish I could. I can’t nail down who Helen Smith is.”
“Seriously?”
“Smith is the most common name in Missouri and don’t get me started on Helen,” said Spidermonkey.
“Well, I’d think she’d be from St. Louis,” I said.
“Then you’re thinking wrong. The old lady is from Hannibal. There’s a boatload of Helen Smiths.”
“Swell.”
“What can I do?” Clarence asked.
I gave her the picture and asked her to send it to Sister Frances to see if she could identify the beehive and amputee in the photo. The little nun got right on it, happy to be useful.
“What else did you find out?” I asked Spidermonkey.
“Well, the church is in the clear on the pedophile question. I can’t see that they held anything back and they are worked up about your investigation into Maggie’s death. I guess you visited some old priest and stirred the pot.”
I’d forgotten about my visit to Father Bernard and I quickly gave Spidermonkey the rundown on it. “What are they saying?”
“They’re worried that they’ll look bad and they don’t have a clue about why Maggie was treated the way she was.”
“That’s what Uncle Morty said,” I said. “He didn’t get to Stott. Anything there?”
Spidermonkey hadn’t spent too much time on Stott. He was more concerned with the church. He did find out that Stott had never owned a truck, green or otherwise, and he had no connection to Missouri before ten years ago. That didn’t mean that Stott didn’t live there in 1965. There just wasn’t a record of it.
“No connection?” I asked. “Parents were never here. Grandparents?”
“Grandparents were dead by that time.”
“He had to be here. I just know it.”
Spidermonkey kept typing and said, “I believe you’re right, but I’m not seeing it. You have to find people who were around at that time. You said people thought he was there.”
“We’re trying, but fifty years is a long time.”
He laughed. “Tell me about it.”
“Can you look at his finances for me? Maybe there’s something there.”
“Already done. Nothing.”
Damn and double damn.
“I guess I’ll just start asking random old people if they know that dirtbag.”
“You could start with that nursing home he’s at,” Spidermonkey said.
Stop the presses.
“How much money did he have?”
“Stott?” Spidermonkey laughed. “What do you think? He was in prison for a lot of his working life.”
I was so tense I had to put down my plate and I really hated to do that. “No money?”
“No. He trained as an electrician in prison and did that until he retired and moved to St. Sebastian.”
“Electricians make good money,” I said.
“Not ex-cons. Nobody wants a felon in their house. He did industrial work when he could get it. Stott was barely scraping by.”
“Shady Glen costs $6,000 a month and you know Medicaid isn’t forking over the whole amount.”
The typing went from fast to furious. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”
“Somebody’s bankrolling him,” I said.
“I’ll follow the money and get back to you.”
We hung up and I slumped down into a chair. Money. So much money and it was getting clearer. Sort of. Spidermonkey was right. Bishop Fowler probably knew about the money, but he didn’t kill Maggie. He was waiting for her in that meeting and pissed that she missed it. I shoveled in the rest of my casserole and looked at the picture. One of those people either did it or knew who did.
“Mercy?” Clarence sat down next to me. “Sister Frances doesn’t recognize anyone, but she’s going to go through her pictures and see what she can find.”
“Thank you. That’s great.”
“What now?”
Irene walked over with the coffee pot an
d a slip of paper. “You’ve got a meeting.”
“A Shipley?”
“Yep and do they want to meet you.” Irene grinned at me while she refilled my cup. “The word is out. St. Sebastian wants to solve a murder.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” Fats staggered into the kitchen as I wound the barf scarf around my neck. Irene had washed it, but Ode de la Barf clung to the fuzzy yarn.
“The Shipleys’ kid wants to meet me,” I said.
“What about me?” Clarence asked. “I’m supposed to be helping.”
We all grimaced. I wasn’t sure what the Shipleys’ son had to say, but, if he had details, Clarence shouldn’t hear them.
“You can help me make lunch,” said Irene, her eyes darting around for something to hand the nun.
“After,” I said, “you can work on some case stuff, if that’s okay.”
“What stuff?” Fats asked as she put her hands on top of her head to catch her breath.
“Um…”
“I want to really help. Don’t give me something silly.” Clarence was onto me. I couldn’t get away with having her cold call people out of the phone book.
My eyes fell on Maggie’s notebook. “This stuff. Irene, do you have a magnifying glass?”
“I have the standing one that I use for stitching.”
“Perfect.” I showed Clarence Maggie’s entries. I could make out enough to put it together, but not everything was clarified. We needed all the money that Maggie noted, as a plus noted, dated, and identified. Maggie had done a lot of work. I didn’t want it to go to waste.
“Why are we doing this?” Lefty said through a mouthful of casserole. He’d come in from plowing the high school parking lot and was all about taking me to Dwayne Shipley’s house. He’d heard Dwayne had taken up blackberry winemaking and wanted the skinny on the results. “Didn’t you prove the stealing?”
“I did, but I doubt it started up magically when Maggie came to work at the asylum. It must’ve been going on for years.”
Fats popped her back in a series of disturbing twisting motions and said, “You found a motive when I was in the basement?”
I pounded some more coffee and told her the good news.
“You’re right,” she said. “That doesn’t start up overnight.”
“I wonder how Maggie knew,” said Clarence. “She was a nurse, not a businessperson.”
“The math wasn’t hard. She knew The Girls. They told her what they were giving.” I pointed at a page with the cost of bed linen written on it. “We can tell from Maggie’s math that there wasn’t enough money for the linen. Look at the question marks.”
Everyone bent over and we looked at where Maggie had written a donation of $2,000 with some initials next to it, not The Girls’ initials though. There should’ve been money for bed linen from that donation and there wasn’t.
Clarence smiled grimly. “I will do it.”
“Great.” I gave her Spidermonkey’s number. “Tell him who you are and, once you’re organized, send him the initials and dates. I bet he can find those other donors.”
Her smile became more grim as she scanned the page. “You think the church stole from orphans and the mentally ill?”
“I think someone in the church organization did or, at least, knew what was happening.”
“I…I…hate this.”
I hugged her. “I know. But this is how they made it. I have no sympathy for thieves.”
The nun nodded and went off with Irene to get the magnifying glass.
“You’re not going without me,” said Fats.
“Wrong. You stink and I’m out.”
“I don’t think the Gator can handle all three of us anyway,” said Lefty.
“We’ll take my truck,” Fats said.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. We got an extra five inches since midnight and it’s still coming down.”
“I have chains,” said Fats. “My job is to watch you, Mercy. Don’t forget Calpurnia has an interest.”
“Who’s Calpurnia?” Lefty asked.
“An independent businesswoman.”
Lefty frowned but didn’t question that odd answer. “Well, I’ve got to go. If you’re coming, let’s do it.”
“No,” said Fats.
I pulled on my poofball hat and mittens. “Yes. You can catch up. I’m not waiting for chains. That’s a pain and a half.”
Fats eyed me and popped out a toothpick, chewing it slowing. “We’re talking about a serial killer.”
“I know. I told you,” I said.
“The reporter’s fires were ten years ago, so that means he’s still active.”
“If it’s related, maybe. Ten years is a long time. Things change. He’s an old man by any calculation.”
Fats thought it over. “You need a weapon. Can you handle my Python?”
“Are you kidding? No. But I don’t need it.” I pulled my Mauser out of my coat pocket and showed it to her. “I’m covered.”
“Is it loaded?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Is it?”
“Yes. It’s loaded. Wouldn’t be much use if it wasn’t.”
“You can’t blame me for asking. It is you.”
“Thanks.”
“I call it like I see it,” said Fats. “I’ll be right behind you. Do not go anywhere else but to the Shipley house.”
“Fine.”
Fats went to shower and Lefty opened the back door for me. “What would she do if you did go somewhere else?”
“I don’t plan on finding out,” I said.
Lefty agreed that going against Fats Licata was probably not the best idea, but he wasn’t ready to let the question of Calpurnia drop. He pelted me with questions as we got in the Gator and rolled out into the street that seemed like it hadn’t been plowed despite the big piles of snow on either side.
“You know I’m going to google this woman, right?” Lefty asked.
“Of course.”
“You want to tell me?”
“Not a chance.”
He grinned at me and hit the gas. “So I heard you saw the eyes.”
We went through my night of terror and Lefty shared stories of other guests who’d been scared out of their wits. He took a lot of pride in the number of people that left in the middle of the night, usually without packing. He had a referral agreement with the Motel 6 so his “Chicken Littles” got a discount and usually weren’t too pissed. They did get bashed on TripAdvisor every so often, but Lefty relished those reviews. Nothing brought in guests like “I wet the bed.”
None of this was making me feel better about a second night in Miss Elizabeth’s House of Creepy, but it did keep Lefty talking and on the road. We made it to Dwayne Shipley’s split level in thirty minutes and only my feet and hands were numb. My standards for successful transport were going way down.
“Is there anything I should know about Dwayne Shipley?” I asked.
“Like what?” Lefty asked.
Should’ve asked this before I ditched Fats.
“Drunk? Crazy? A history of violence?”
“You live in a different world.”
“Same world. Different view,” I said. “So?”
“I think he teaches economics at the junior college,” said Lefty.
“That it?”
Lefty shrugged and blocked a minivan in the driveway before booting me out. I landed face down in a snowdrift and the kids building a snow fort next door laughed their faces off. I pelted them with snowballs until I heard laughing behind me.
A man wearing two sweaters smiled at me from the doorway of the split level and waved us in. Lefty couldn’t resist and did a Kamikaze run with a lump of snow the size of a toaster oven. He got completely destroyed before jumping over the snow fort to drop the lump on the kids’ heads.
The squeals and protests followed me inside a toasty warm house that was much more modern on the inside than the outside. That house had looked the same since probably 1984.
Inside, it was all Fixer Upper with cool greys and rustic accents.
“Glad you made it in one piece,” said the double sweater guy. “I’ve heard Lefty isn’t the best driver.”
“It depends on what you want to be the best at.” I stomped on the oversized mat to try and get the snow off. It was hopeless. That snow was the super sticky kind. Great for snowballs and caking on clothes.
“Let me help you take those off.” He gestured to a bench and squatted in front of me to yank my boots off. “I’m Dwayne, but I guess you know that. My wife Amy’s in the kitchen.”
“Hello!” a woman called out from the second floor. “Do you want some coffee?”
“I’d love some. Thank you!”
Dwayne got me out of Irene’s snow beast get up and Lefty knocked on the door to bring in a fresh wave of freezing and snow. I went upstairs while Dwayne helped Lefty, asking him about the possibly of the basketball tournament going ahead.
Amy brought me into the living room and we sat down next to a wagon wheel coffee table. I’d seen a wagon wheel coffee table in Mom’s favorite movie, When Harry met Sally, but I’d never seen one in real life.
“She’s looking at the table, Dwayne,” said Amy.
“It’s an heirloom,” said Dwayne.
She leaned over to me and I got a whiff of her Chanel No. 5. “I wanted to hide it before you got here, but he wouldn’t let me.”
Dwayne and Lefty came up and Dwayne crossed his arms. “Dad left us that table.”
“Because he hated me,” said Amy.
Dwayne sat down in a kind of modern wingback chair upholstered in pale paisley fabric. Super stylish and it didn’t go with that wagon wheel at all. “My father loved you. He brought this wagon wheel back from the war. It meant a lot to him.”
“He did not bring it back from the war. How would that even happen? It’s huge.”
I have to give that one to Amy. It’s not like a wagon wheel fit in a duffel bag.
“So your dad was a veteran,” I said.
“A combat medic,” said Amy.
There you go. Desmond did know about bodies.
“Sounds like an interesting man.”
“Don’t get me wrong. Des was the absolute best. He just didn’t bring back this wagon wheel.”
“Enough with the wagon wheel,” said Dwayne. “Dad said he brought it. I believe him. You know he never lied.”