Murder in Moon Water

by CeCe Osgood

  "You're sure Harriet didn't mention George?"

  "I'm sure."

  Another lie. Guess that makes me a lying bi—witch.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The minute the Rolls pulled into Lulu's driveway Abby claimed her bladder was screaming and quickly exited the car to hurry home.

  Inside, she shut the door and peeked through the front window's curtain. She wanted to drive back into town right away to talk to Harriet, but if she hopped into her car now, Lulu would see her and be suspicious.

  On the trip home, Lulu had mentioned needing a nap, so Abby stood peeking through the curtain waiting for the old gal to go inside.

  But inside of disappearing into the depths of her purple foursquare, Lulu walked from the Rolls to the mailbox located near the curb.

  Just then an elderly couple pedaling down the street on a bicycle built for two veered toward Lulu. The bike braked; the couple wanted to chat.

  Abby stomped a foot in frustration.

  Then she chided herself for being such a coward. You're thirty-five years old and you're acting like a teenager waiting for her parents to go to sleep so she can sneak out of the house. Just go. Don't worry about her seeing you.

  And yet, she didn't. Something told her to stay put until Lulu went inside the house for her nap. Maybe it was her witchy-woo-woo sensibility kicking in because she was absolutely certain the shrewd old lady would badger her non-stop if she saw Abby driving off.

  "Why'd you leave, Buttercup? Did you meet up with Harriet Dill? Y'all two were talking about George, weren't ya? Tell me what she said, Abby. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me."

  With a sigh, Abby leaned against the wall and waited. She didn't like lying but she had to. Harriet Dill wanted to tell her something, Just her. Not Lulu. She had no choice but to keep their meeting a secret. "Right?"

  Right.

  Besides, after witnessing Lulu's rant today at the town meeting, she couldn't chance sharing any information because Lulu might blab it to the world. That was no way to conduct an investigation.

  She tittered. "Conduct an investigation. Guess Lulu isn't the only one watching too many TV crime shows."

  Across the street, the elderly couple were dismounting the bike. "Oh, c'mon," Abby griped.

  The couple followed Lulu toward the birdbath. "Sheesh. This'll take forever," Abby groaned and walked into the kitchen for something to eat.

  Moments later, she returned, munching on a cheese stick, and stood at the window watching the threesome admiring Lulu's still blooming Victoria Salvia.

  Understandable since the lavender blossoms were an uplifting contrast to the browning foliage due to October's chilly weather.

  Too bad it wasn't a sunny day. All three seniors would've wanted to avoid the sun and go inside. But no. It was a muddled overcast that looked like starchy rice water.

  Abby shifted her weight onto her left leg and finished the cheese stick.

  Finally, the couple mounted the bike and pedaled away, and, at last, Lulu unlocked her front door and entered her purple house.

  Abby whipped outside and slid into the Volvo to drive back to town.

  On the road, she hashed out her impressions from the town meeting. The sheriff seemed like a fair arbiter. Edwina Holcombe was pleased by her husband's obviously fawning comments. That, in her mind, gave him an even smarmier vibe.

  And when he'd acted so adamant about George's death being an accident, Abby did wonder if it was a case of him protesting too much.

  Her right foot stayed steady on the gas pedal while her left leg bounced up and down with a certain amount of trepidation and a fair amount of excitement. She couldn't wait to talk to Harriet.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Upon entering Dill's Diner Abby immediately sensed the impossibility of catching Harriet at a free moment.

  The swelling crowd of diners for today's special—chili and cornbread—had the place hopping. Today's muddled gray sky and cooler temps made the notion of cornbread and chili highly attractive.

  She would have to come back after the rush. Strolling outside, her gaze landed on the shops on the other side of the square. The Trading Post, a general store with a mish-mash of commercially produced household necessities, toys, and souvenirs, as well as locally produced items like sweaters and caps from a knitting club, was the largest store on the square.

  Next to the Trading Post was a hair salon, then Steed's Bookstore and next to it, the now closed Moon Water Bakery.

  On this side of the square she noted an electronics shop, then a pharmacy and at the end of the short block was the Moon Water Bank.

  No, she was wrong. Situated between the pharmacy and the bank was a narrow storefront with a square plate glass window and a carved oak door.

  A gleam of light from the gold lettering on the plate glass made her raise an eyebrow. Gilbert Inglewood. Attorney-at-Law. Licensed Real Estate Broker.

  Although he had seen his name on the legal documents when she won the cottage, she'd never met him. Maybe I should introduce myself. Sure, why not?

  I might be able to get a bead on his vibe and see if George had him rightly pegged as a crook.

  She laughed at herself. If only it were that easy to figure out someone.

  At that moment, the carved oak door swung open and out stepped Gilbert Inglewood with a stunningly gorgeous woman in a skintight jersey knit dress as black as her hair.

  Intrigued, Abby watched Gilbert escort the woman to a cream-colored Cadillac convertible parked at the curb.

  As they drove off, the woman donned a silky red scarf. Then her head turned to glance behind her and her gaze met Abby's.

  A chill traveled down Abby's spine. It was as if a ribbon of energy had undulated through the air and skimmed across her skin like the touch of a cold clammy finger.

  The connection lessened as the convertible turned down a side street and disappeared from view.

  As if in a trance, Abby walked away from the square going in the opposite direction of the car. The farther away she got, the more relaxed she felt, and soon the prickly experience was a vague memory, if that.

  Three blocks from the square, she spied a two-story timber and brick building with a modest green neon sign atop its saloon door entrance.

  Willard's Bar, except the "W" was on the fritz, so it flashed 'illard's Bar on and off.

  A sandwich board in front advertised regional wines, craft beers, and bacon burgers.

  "Tres trendy," she murmured, vowing to visit 'illard's Bar someday soon. Maybe she'd get Wyatt to join her.

  Yeah, sure. With my luck, I'll end up there with Lulu.

  Up ahead, she spotted a modest Victorian-styled house which had been converted into Moon Water's public library. In the entrance stood a miniature replica of a steam engine touting the history of the railroad industry in Oregon.

  To the right, was the main room with a thick beige carpet to hush footfalls and give the room a feeling of serenity.

  Abby had just eased into a comfy reading chair with a magazine when she heard a female voice. "No, you hold it while I clean it."

  Another voice replied, "Alright, but don't press too hard or you'll crack the glass."

  Curiosity aroused, Abby rose and moved in the direction of the voices. Two women made up the cleaning crew for a display case. One held up the lid while the other dampened a cloth and carefully wiped the glass.

  As soon as they left, she moved closer to see the contents: yellowing newspaper clippings and early nineteenth century photographs.

  One showed the exterior of a saloon with several hunters displaying fur pelts. The saloon's name: Willard's. Ah. Like the bar. "Well, no," she mused. "That's "illard's."

  The captions below the photographs revealed that, in 1881, T. J. Willard's established a saloon near a creek for hunters roaming the mountains in southern Oregon. Willard named the creek and saloon for himself, and, when the fledging settlement grew, he insisted on naming it Willard's Town.

  "Willard the ego
tist," Abby murmured.

  However, in 1928 the town and the creek were renamed Moon Water after a strange event occurred.

  Her brow furrowed, recalling her first conversation with Selene at the diner. The waiter had interrupted their conversation right at the moment Selene brought up the strange event, and they had never returned to the topic.

  Abby bowed her head to read the next card in the display case.

  In January of 1928, a meteor shower occurred during the evening, sending streaks of electricity skating across the surface waters of what was then called Willard's Creek. All that night the water glowed a bright blue and reflected the full moon like a mirror.

  People flocked to the creek, and those who touched the water said they immediately felt a kind of itchy sensation all over their bodies, and, for a while, they seemed to possess a sharpening of their vision and hearing and sense of smell. Some reported an ability to quickly navigate through the forest surrounding the Willard's Town with the speed of a panther. Some even claimed to speak to the forest creatures.

  The experience lasted until the creek water returned to its normal color at dawn. Afterwards, a majority of the residents insisted on changing the name of the creek and the town to Moon Water.

  Returning to her comfy armchair, she decided the "strange event" was more likely caused by a bad batch of moonshine at Willard's saloon than the meteor shower.

  An hour and half later, she entered the diner, which was far less crowded now, and slid onto an empty stool at the counter.

  Moments later, Harriet tottered over and offered a hand to shake. "I didn't mean to sound so cryptic when I saw you at the gazebo."

  Abby grinned. "I'm glad you reached out to me. The only other person who seems to know George well is Lulu."

  Harriet flipped back a straying lock of her brown hair. Her tone was diplomatic when she said, "Lulu is a person of strong opinions and has a jolly good time expressing them. I usually prefer to keep my opinions to myself."

  "I understand completely," Abby said, hoping that would encourage the woman to open up.

  "Let's get a table," Harriet said, gesturing at a four-top near the back wall. Once they were seated, she nervously re-positioned the salt and pepper shakers on the table before saying, "Why do you believe it wasn't an accident?"

  Because a ghost told me.

  Abby shrugged. "I'm not sure." She left it at that, and Harriet was polite enough to let it go. "How did you know George?"

  "Through Doris, his wife. She was my babysitter when she lived here, and she was heartbroken when her family had to move for her father's new job. She used to send me postcards. That's how we kept in touch until, eventually, we didn't. Then last year, she and George—I didn't know him at the time—walked into the diner. I was so surprised, even more so when Doris told me they were in the process of buying a house here."

  Harriet pushed away from the table and rose. "Would you like a bowl of chili?"

  "Yes. I'm surprised you have any left. I saw the crowd in here."

  "I always keep a little extra."

  When Harriet returned, she had two bowls of chili, a ramekin topped with butter and a covered basket filled with warm cornbread.

  Easing into her chair, she said, "Doris and George used to come in for lunch until her health made it difficult for her to leave the house. I used to visit and bring them casseroles, but then she stopped wanting to see anyone."

  Dipping her spoon into the chili, she asked, "How is it, Abby?"

  "Phenomenal. The best I've ever tasted."

  Harriet grinned, and before long most of the chili was gone before Abby returned to the topic of George and Doris. "Where did they meet?"

  Harriet took a moment. "Let's see. Oh, yes. Indianapolis. Doris had finished her training just that week and she met him on her first interview."

  "Job interview?"

  "Yes. He hired her."

  "Why?"

  "For his dental practice. He needed a new hygienist. She told me she worked for him for over a year before they started dating." Harriet smiled. "They fell in love to the romantic sounds of a dentist drill. Her words, not mine."

  "How long were they together?"

  "Thirty-something years."

  "No kids?"

  "She couldn't. She went through a severe depression when she found out."

  "So, they lived in Indianapolis before moving here?"

  Harriet turned away and waved to a patron who had just entered the diner then faced Abby again. "No. They had moved from there to, um, I believe it was to Chattanooga, and that's where he retired a few years ago. They bought an RV and made trips all around the country before Doris was diagnosed with a rare type of bone cancer. When the chemo treatments failed, she told George she wanted to spend what time she had left here in Moon Water."

  Harriet paused. "Why are you interested in where they used to live?"

  Abby buttered a chunky slice of cornbread. "Curiosity."

  After a few bites, she said, "This is kind of a delicate question, Harriet."

  She wanted to ask if there were any rumors about Lulu and George being romantically involved after Doris passed away, but she couldn't bring herself to do it.

  Lulu had to be in her seventies, and George was probably in his early sixties. The age difference didn't matter, but Abby simply couldn't see Lulu striking up a romance with a grieving widower.

  But then people can fool you.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Abby's fingers drummed the tabletop. "I'm wondering if,"—her fingers stilled. She couldn't ask the question and changed it to—"I'm wondering if George or Doris ever mentioned someone with a grudge against him."

  Harriet, lost in thought, stirred the spoon around and around in her bowl of chili. "I don't think so. I know he got into a fracas with the mayor. And there was an episode with Gilbert Inglewood."

  "There was?”

  She nodded. "Mr. Steed from the bookstore told me he saw George's car pull up next to Gilbert's convertible. Apparently, George was peeved about something, and he threw a handful of honeyberries at the Caddy. A couple berries must have made it inside to the floorboard because Gilbert was furious.

  "The next day George found his garbage can in the street and trash all over his yard. Now, I'm not saying that Gilbert did it, because it was a windy night, but George believed he did." She arched a scraggly eyebrow. "George was certain of it.”

  "Lulu said nothing about this."

  "She might not know. I believe she was on a trip somewhere, and I guess George didn’t bring it up.”

  "How recent was this?”

  “Late August, I think. George was living like a hermit. His dog was sick, and he didn’t want to leave him for a minute. I’d drop by sometimes with leftovers from the diner or a casserole. I stocked the freezer with easy microwave dishes. That was around the time he told me about the trash can. I didn't give it much thought because George tended to be paranoid at times.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Harriet reached for the basket of cornbread. “A few days before he died. He surprised me by coming into the diner with a sketch he'd found. Doris was an amateur artist, and she’d drawn a picture of me when I was a kid. George said he was certain Doris would have wanted me to have it.”

  Harriet's brow wrinkled. "Something odd did happen that day. We were talking, and then I went back to the kitchen to get him a piece of pie. His favorite is pecan. When I returned, I found him staring out the front window mumbling to himself. He kept saying 'it can't be, it can't be.’ When I asked him what was wrong, it was like he didn't even hear me. He just kept mumbling.”

  "That was all he said?"

  Harriet pinched the bridge of her nose, thinking. "He did say something else. What was it? Oh, yes. He said, 'my records, my records.' I'm fairly sure that’s what he said.

  "But here's the thing that really got to me. He left without even taking a bite of the pie. I remember thinking how strange that was because
George never passed up pecan pie.”

  Abby left the diner clutching a brown sack filled with cornbread and two large containers of chili. Jill would be starving when she got home from mucking out stalls at Pine Ridge Ranch today.

  On the drive back to Honeyberry Woods, she contemplated Harriet's description of George in the diner. Why did he say, "it can't be" and "my records, my records"?

  “His record collection. That’s what he meant. If I could go through it… Darn it. I wish I hadn't dropped the spare key in the letter drop.

  The sun, which had finally appeared, was casting deep shadows as the Volvo cruised down Curiosity Lane.

  She turned off the engine, glanced at the rearview mirror and saw Lulu approaching.

  With a groan, she slid out of the driver’s side, making sure to hide the brown sack from Dill's Diner with her handbag.

  "Guess what I've been doing?" Lulu said as she shuffled toward her.

  Abby hazarded a guess while she moved toward her front steps. “Making more honeyberry syrup?"

  "Nope. I’ve been snooping," Lulu said giddily, following Abby into the house. "My gal pal who lives on Windmill Lane told me she saw a black Benz parked in the driveway of a house on her block last night. The Benz stayed there all night long. She saw it leave this morning.”

  Abby shrugged. “So?”

  Sheesh. This must be the reality of life in a small town. Everybody knowing your business or thinking they do.

  "Holcombe drives a black Benz, and Edwina is out of town until tomorrow. The point is Mayor Hanky-Panky is fooling around with Denise Elba, the woman who lives on Windmill Lane. And, get this, Denise is a supervisor at the county courthouse in Fennerton.”

  Abby, with Lulu still two steps behind her, entered the kitchen and shoved the brown sack from Dill's Diner into the fridge, deftly hiding it behind a half-gallon container of milk. She turned to face Lulu. "I don't get it."

  Lulu tapped her own temple. "Think, Buttercup.”

  "You're not making a lot of sense.”