Murder in Moon Water

by CeCe Osgood

  Spotting a half-raised window hidden behind the spiky barrier bushes, she dashed back inside of her house, raided the hall closet for a parka and returned to use it as a shield. Holding the parka in front of her face she braved the bushes to get to the window.

  "Abby Little?"

  Shocked, she spun around, the flesh of her hand catching on a thorn. “Ow!”

  Sheriff Ethan Moser stood leaning on the door of his Jeep. Stone-faced, he approached, his black boots crunching the autumn leaves. "Breaking and entering is a crime, Ms. Little."

  "I, um, I..." Think, think. Don't just stand here staring at him. "I, um, thought I smelled smoke. Naturally that had me worried."

  The sheriff's expression didn't change, but he lifted his head and let his nostrils flare when he sniffed the air. "Where exactly did you smell this smoke?"

  Before she could answer, she heard the patter of little feet, little feet in silver ballet slippers hurriedly crossing the street. "You hoo."

  You hoo.

  "What's going on, sheriff?" Lulu’s narrowed gaze had a tinge of pugilistic fervor.

  "I'm trying to ascertain that myself, Tallulah."

  Abby stuck to her story. "I thought I smelled smoke."

  Sheriff Moser gestured to both women. "Wait here you two."

  They stood silent, still peeved at each other from last night, and watched him inspect the front door.

  Lulu gave Abby the side-eye. "What are you up to?"

  Abby ignored her.

  The sheriff came walking back. "Not a whiff.”

  Lulu piped up, nectar in her voice. "She was being neighborly. It's how folks should be. All of us have to look out for each other and each other's property. Don't we, sheriff?"

  “Ideally,” he said, clearly not buying it.

  "A deputy," he said, reaching into the pocket of his jacket, "found this near George's front steps. Does it belong to you, Ms Little?”

  He walked closer to her, held up a tiny plastic bag containing a heart-shaped earring."

  She took it. "Yes, it sure does. I lose earrings all the time, so I never wear anything expensive. I guess I lost it the night found him, you know. Gee, thanks," she said, hoping she sounded light-hearted, easy-going and extremely innocent as opposed to how she actually felt. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

  "You're welcome, Ms. Little."

  "Call me Abby, please.”

  He nodded. "Abby. Guess I'll be going now." He nodded to Lulu. "Tallulah."

  "Sheriff," she said. Civility all around.

  As soon as his Jeep pulled away from the curb, Lulu huffed, "What are you up to?"

  "I thought I smelled—”

  "Pish-posh on that. Tell me the truth."

  Or what? You'll put a curse me? Better watch out because I might actually do that to you as soon as I learn how.

  "Tell me the truth," Lulu demanded, fixing Abby with a sour glare until she finally gave in.

  "Oh, all right. Harriet Dill told me something. If you swear not to blab it to anyone, and by anyone, I mean the world in general, I'll tell you what she said."

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Lulu's right hand shot up. "I swear to keep this between us or, so help me, I will paint my house a boring brown and never decorate it again for Halloween."

  Abby rolled her eyes. Yeah, I’m sure that’ll happen. She related Harriet's description of George staring out the window at the diner mumbling "it can't be" and "my records, my records."

  Lulu scrunched her nose into a frown. "So?"

  Abby tapped her temple and sported an impish grin. "Think, Lulu. Or do I have to connect the dots for you?”

  Instead of taking offense at having her own words parroted back to her, Lulu laughed. "Yep. Connect 'em, Buttercup."

  Abby turned serious. "I forgot to tell you something. George left the diner without touching his pecan pie."

  "That is strange. George had to be really upset to pass up pecan pie. Harriet said he was staring out the window. At what?"

  "She didn’t see anything outside. Just the usual stuff: the park, the gazebo, a couple cars. She said he mumbled ‘my records, my records’ and I thought if I could get inside….”

  “To look at his record collection. I get it. George used to hide a key—” Lulu broke off and moved toward a flat rock near the green hose curled up by the front steps.

  She nudged the rock over with her foot. In the soil was a key.

  Seated on the living room floor of George’s cottage, they combed through his records, carefully searching inside each album sleeve. When the task resulted in nothing, they inspected the cassette tapes and the CDs. The result was the same. Zilch.

  "Bummer," Lulu declared, putting a hand on Abby's shoulder for help standing up. They had been sitting on the floor for at least two hours. "I need to go home and take a red pill for my ticker.”

  "You've got a bad heart?”

  "Bad, no? Old, yes. And, besides, I need a white pill for the pain in my backside after all this floor work."

  Lulu held onto Abby’s arm as they crossed the street to the purple house.

  Inside, Lulu told her where to find the pills. Abby opened the bathroom cabinet upstairs, found the bottles and returned with the pills and a glass of water.

  Lulu stretched out on the cognac-colored couch, propped her tiny feet up on a tufted brown leather ottoman. She held out her hand as Abby approached.

  "I've been meaning to ask you, Buttercup. Do you want to clean my house?"

  "I'm sorry, what?" She dropped the pills into Lulu’s hand.

  The old lady swallowed both at once and chased them with a gulp of water. "I thought maybe you'd started a business. Didn’t you clean up George’s?”

  Lulu—the busybody—must have been peeking out her upstairs window when Abby mopped the front porch.

  "That was a temp thing. Wyatt has a severe dust allergy. He hired me to clean the cottage while he's in Seattle repairing a friend's ceiling. Can't tell you how thrilled I am to have a handyman living next door to me."

  “He's living there? I thought he was somebody doing a ‘make ready' to put it on the market.

  “No. He inherited it. He's George nephew, Wyatt Perkins.”

  Lulu’s forehead crinkled. "George didn’t have a nephew.”

  “Yeah, he did.”

  “No. His brother's gay and never had children.”

  Abby cocked her head. “Guess he's from Doris’ side of the family."

  "Then why would he be named Wyatt Perkins?"

  Chapter Twenty-three

  At home that night, Abby pondered the possibility Lulu was right. George didn't have a nephew. The first thing she had done when she got home was to hop on the internet to see if she could find him on social media. There was an assortment of men with the same name, but, as far as she could tell, none of them matched the Wyatt Perkins next door.

  She had one other potential source of information. Sheriff Moser. Would that be pushing it to ask him to confirm Wyatt's identity?

  She snapped her fingers. “Harriet. I'll try her first and if that's a dead end, then I'll ask the sheriff."

  Harriet's phone went to voicemail. “Abby Little, here. I have a question for you. Would you please call me when you can?"

  The next morning her phone buzzed. She raced back from the bathroom and picked it up off her nightstand. It wasn't Harriet. The caller ID said Steed's Bookstore.

  "Ms. Little? This is Mr. Steed at Steed's Bookstore. Selene Adamas suggested I call you. I am in need of temporary help for my bookstore. Are you available?”

  A job? A job! Fantastic. Bubbling with excitement, she tittered, "Yes sir, I'm available.”

  "It's only for today, Ms. Little."

  The bubble burst. "Oh."

  "My assistant's girlfriend broke up with him last night, and the young man says he got soused. Needless to say, he's in no shape to work today. Could you be here shortly before ten?"

  "Yes, Mr. Steed. I'll be there."

  "Park your
car on the other side of the square. I like to leave the spaces in front for customers.”

  Abby disconnected then left a voicemail for Selene postponing today’s lesson.

  After a quick shower, she pulled several options out of her closet, trying to decide what to wear.

  "Why can't witches conjure up money? Why do we have to get jobs?" she wondered as she selected a business casual look: charcoal gray trousers, a long-sleeved black blouse and a gray blazer to which she added a paisley scarf at the neckline for a smidgen of color.

  The trousers looked good with her boots, but she chose a pair of soft-soled comfortable loafers in case she would have to be on her feet all day.

  Shortly before ten o'clock Abby parked the Volvo on the opposite side of the square. She was crossing Main Street headed to the bookstore when a fierce gust of wind came out of nowhere.

  Swirling around her like a tornado, it whipped her trousers back and forth as if some powerful hand was ripping them off of her. The paisley scarf flew into her eyes, half-blinding her as she struggled to stay upright.

  Then the ferocious wind was gone, disappearing as quickly as it had materialized.

  At the curb, she was smoothing down her trousers when she glimpsed Gilbert Inglewood's creamy Cadillac convertible parked in front of his office.

  She hadn't thought of him before now. Could he confirm Wyatt's identity? He had been George's real estate agent on the purchase of the cottage, and he was also a lawyer. He might have handled George's will. If he did, he might know how George listed Wyatt on the will.

  Then again, would George have trusted Gilbert Inglewood since he suspected Gilbert was in on the dirty deal?

  She entered the building. Inside the vestibule hung a sign on a paneled walnut door. Press buzzer.

  At that moment, a noise alerted her to the paneled door opening. Gilbert Inglewood stepped out into the vestibule, keys in hand. He saw her. "Hello?”

  “Hi,” she said with a glance at the keys. "Did I come at a bad time? I'm sorry. I have a quick question for you, Mr. Inglewood."

  “Wait here a moment, please. I'll be right back.”

  He breezed by her and stepped outside. She watched him through the opened door. He unlocked the Cadillac, retrieved something from the front seat and returned carrying what looked like a case for glasses. "I know who you are. You’re Abby Little. You won the cottage."

  "That's me.”

  He punched in a code; the buzzer sounded, unlocking the walnut door. "Follow me please."

  She did and entered his private office. She immediately regretted it.

  The woman she'd seen him with before was on the loveseat, her legs curled up and partially covered by her black satiny skirt, a naked right foot twitching impatiently.

  "Camille, this is Abby. She won the cottage. Remember, I mentioned that."

  "I do." A momentary smile wreathed her lips before the woman returned her gaze to Gilbert.

  Abby sensed a wave of magnetism almost pulling him toward the stunning raven-haired Camille.

  Camille flicked her hand. "Toss it to me.”

  Gilbert tossed the object he was carrying to her. She flipped it open.

  There were no glasses inside. There was a thin brown tube, and for one wild bizarre moment, Abby believed it was a wand, similar to the one she'd seen Selene use, although a lot shorter and thinner.

  Camille removed the tube. Abby realized it was an e-cigarette.

  Gilbert, as if coming out of a trance, turned to Abby. "You said you have a question for me?”

  "Yes. I do. It concerns George Perkins."

  "Is this about his death? I saw you at the town meeting when Lulu Dupree declared the old man was murdered. She said you believed that too."

  Abby downplayed it. "Lulu's projecting her own opinions on me. She's a touch eccentric.”

  A grin played on his lips. "A touch? That's diplomatic of you. So, what's your question?”

  "I understand George's heir is already moving into the property. Is that true?"

  "My relationship with Mr. Perkins dealt solely with the purchase of the cottage, not his will."

  "But it's happening so quickly. Wouldn't the heir have to go through probate before moving—"

  "Not necessarily if it's in a trust of some kind or a grant deed."

  Exhaling the vapor from the e-cigarette, Camille slipped her feet into the gold stilettos resting on the floor.

  "Gilbert," she said as she rose, her skirt shimmering like black ice, "we must go. We are late."

  A slight lift of his eyebrows clued Abby into his reaction of surprise. He covered it by saying, "My apologies, Ms. Little. We must go. It's been a pleasure meeting you."

  Abby let out a nervous laugh. "Sure, um, thanks. Glad to meet you. Both of you."

  She stepped out of his private office, whisked through the vestibule and was outside in seconds, sucking in the fresh air. She'd begun to feel uneasy and claustrophobic in there with those two. Whatever was going between Gilbert and Camille could be summed up with one word. Strange. No, two words. Scary strange.

  A glance at her watch told her she had one minute to get to the bookstore.

  Mr. Steed, in a burgundy Mr. Rogers sweater and a matching necktie, stepped out from behind the counter to greet her. "Let me show you the store."

  He gestured for her to follow him. "Over there is non-fiction and then we"—he swung a hand—"have fiction. Mysteries take up this wall, the entire wall, and these two rows of shelves. Romance has its wall too as well as these four shelves. It outsells mystery. Fantasy and sci-fi share this section."

  He beckoned her to follow him to a stack."Classics and modern literature are here."

  He grunted in dismay then, like an over protective father, plucked a book out of a shelf.

  Annoyance flashed on his wizened face. "Why would anyone put this C. S. Forester next to E. M. Forster? I tell you it's criminal what people do. I beg customers not to reshelve a book because they so often put it in the wrong place. Bring the book to me, I say. Do they listen? No. They do not."

  Discomfited, he forced a grin. "Forgive me. Enough of that. Come along please."

  She followed him into the children's room where the town meeting had taken place. He gestured at the table and chairs, the coloring books, the puzzles. "This area always needs rearranging, especially when there are inattentive parents.”

  They walked back into the main area of the bookstore. "And now let me introduce you to the beast."

  Abby gulped. "The what?"

  "The register. Computerized. My assistant talked me into it, and I'm extremely sorry I accepted his reasoning."

  Minutes later, Abby concurred. It was a beast. The system was much harder than the one she'd had at Burt's Desserts.

  "Abby, please put a couple of these around the store." Mr. Steed handed her a black and orange flyer for the high school's Halloween Haunted House. Jill had mentioned but without any desire to go. "So lame," she'd said.

  The bell on the door drew her attention to a customer walking inside. It was the assistant principal of the high school she'd met when Jill enrolled. They chatted, and he bought six books. "Early Christmas presents," he told her.

  The rest of day seemed to go quickly, thanks to the tourists who stopped in and the local customers, most of whom belonged to a book club. They bubbled with joy about their last pick and the new book they wanted to purchase for next month's meeting.

  It was closing in on sunset when Abby mentally raised her fist in victory, confident she had finally tamed the beast.

  Her cheery mood changed when the bell on the door jangled again; Harriet rushed inside, looking frazzled and alarmed. "Something's happened to Selene.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The Moon Water community health clinic, a one-story low-ceilinged building built in the last decade, was undergoing construction and had plastic sheets as sawdust barriers at the entrance.

  They spotted Lulu dozing in the small waiting area. Harriet
gently shook her shoulder. Lulu stirred.

  Harriet said, "I heard you called the ambulance for Selene. What happened?"

  Lulu rubbed her watery eyes, her weary face solemn. "I saw her fall. I just happened to be driving by. She was walking to her car. It was parked in its usual spot at the top of her driveway. Then suddenly she was flailing, her arms flapping like a bird, and I saw her falling down the driveway, tumbling over and over until she hit the street."

  Abby pictured Selene's Tudor house with its steep driveway and even steeper front steps. It had to be forty or fifty feet from the house to the curb. A hard fall, a dangerous fall, a possibly fatal fall.

  "I was in shock. I slapped my own face—I really did—and that pulled me out of it. I ran to Selene. She was groggy and in pain, but not unconscious. It's a miracle she only has three bruised ribs, two broken toes and sprained her wrist.”

  “How do you know that, Lulu?" Mr. Steed said, easing into a molded plastic chair next to her.

  "X-rays. They did that already and a CT. The doctor and a nurse are in there with her now."

  A nurse with a stern face and round, gold-rimmed glasses approached them. The name tag on her blue scrubs said Annette Esteban.

  Esteban. That was Devon's last name. "Are you Devon's mom?"

  The woman's stern face split into a smile. "Yes, I am. And you are?"

  Abby introduced herself, mentioned Jill and the equestrian club.

  Minutes later, Annette the nurse broke the two-visitors only rule and allowed all four of them into Room D.

  Selene, her silver hair limp and scraggly, was propped up with a cast on her right foot, a bandaged wrist and a perturbed grimace on her face along with a badly scraped cheek.

  “Oh, my stars," gasped Harriet.