Hems & Homicide

by Elizabeth Penney

  I put my spoon down and stared at her. “You do know you have to tell me, right?”

  Her smile was teasing. “I suppose.” She patted my hand. “Before you get all excited, what’s in there is probably worth tens of thousands, not a million or anything.” She grimaced. “But we sure could use the cash.”

  CHAPTER 5

  I pushed the bowl away, my appetite gone. Grammie was funding a good chunk of the store’s start-up costs, but I never would have accepted her help if I’d thought it would jeopardize her financial safety net. “Grammie. Why didn’t you say anything? You didn’t have to—”

  She put up a hand. “We’re fine, Iris.” Her tone was reassuring. “Yes, we’re a little bit out on a limb with the business and I’m hoping your … your discovery today won’t scare off customers.” Her brows knitted together in an all too familiar gesture of anxiety. “But there’s no denying that Joe’s coin collection and paid-up insurance policies would help.”

  “All right, if you say so.” I accepted her reassurance for the moment but immediately moved Papa’s desk much higher on my to-do list. “How can we get the desk open? Do locksmiths work on those?”

  The mention of a locksmith reminded me that we needed new locks for the store immediately. I wasn’t going to struggle every day trying to get inside. Plus the front and back doors had different keys, I had noticed. That was going to change.

  “Good idea.” Grammie’s eyes widened and she wagged a finger at me. “Maybe not a locksmith, but I’ll bet Gary Ball has a key. Many old locks use a skeleton key.”

  “I saw Gary on the way home, making a delivery at the Farmhouse Bed-and-Breakfast.” I didn’t mention seeing Ian as well, but my cheeks heated at the memory.

  She glanced at the clock. “He’s actually supposed to come by here shortly. I’m sending out the dining room table to be refinished.” Seeing that I was about to protest the expense, she said, “Already paid for. Papa’s present to me.” The trestle table was another family heirloom, but passed down on Grammie’s side. After decades of hard use, the surface sported white rings, dents, and scratches galore.

  “We better get it cleaned off, then.” Right now the table held my White sewing machine, labeled boxes ready to go out to customers, files, and stacks of mail.

  “I brought in a folding table we can set up,” Grammie said, answering my unspoken concern about where all that stuff was going to go. “Want coffee? I’m going to put on a small pot.” Grammie carried her empty bowl to the sink then scooped coffee into a filter for the secondhand two-burner commercial Bunn we’d bought for the shop. After a few uses, we decided to buy another and keep this one at home because it made such great coffee so quickly.

  “Sure, I’ll take one.” I could use the caffeine boost for the rest of the busy day ahead, including email to check and online orders to fill. I forced myself to eat a few more spoonfuls of chowder, not wanting to waste it. That was a first, I thought ruefully. Usually I gobbled the bowl and went for seconds.

  My phone beeped and I dug it out of my dress pocket to find a text from Madison. See you at Bella’s tonight or do you need bail? A winking emoji followed.

  I laughed and shook my head. Madison always knew how to lighten a mood. Yes, I wrote back, smiling, letting her guess which question I was answering. If you drive. I’d made it back here all right but I wasn’t keen on operating a car again until my ankle felt better. She promised to swing by and get me.

  The four of us—Bella, Sophie, Madison, and I—met almost every week to share a potluck dinner, drink wine, and catch up. Sometimes we worked on sewing projects, like stuffed animals for the women’s auxiliary craft fair or patchwork quilts to give hospitalized children and families at the local women’s shelter. We often used vintage linens, cutting pieces from sheets and pillowcases that were too ripped, stained, or worn to sell. Well, Madison didn’t sew but she was great at cutting fabric and stuffing toys.

  “Want to go with me to Bella’s tonight?” I asked Grammie when she set a mug of already doctored coffee in front of me. We took coffee the same way, with a splash of milk and no sugar.

  Grammie was welcome at our meetings, as were other friends and family. I hoped to expand our little sewing circle with classes and open studio hours at the store. In my imagination, Ruffles & Bows was already a lively community open to all, joined by friendship and shared interests.

  As if reading my mind, Quincy brushed against my uninjured foot with a mew. And yes, cats were allowed. Well-behaved cats, I amended.

  “I’d love to tag along,” Grammie said. “So sweet of you gals to include me.” She opened the refrigerator door. “How about I bring chicken and dumplings? I have leftover roast chicken I can use.” She threw me a teasing glance. “And the extra dozen cupcakes I happened to hold back?”

  “Yum. Sounds fantastic.” With a laugh, I slid carefully off the stool, still holding my mug. “I’ll go clear off the table so it’s ready for Gary.”

  Grammie and Quincy followed me to the dining room, which adjoined the kitchen. This long room stretched from the kitchen to the front of the house, as did the living room on the other side. Both rooms had fireplaces, now with more efficient wood-burning inserts, and were joined in the middle by the center hall and staircase to the second floor. When Papa and Grammie inherited the house from my great-grandparents, they tore down walls, transforming poky, cramped spaces into a livable open-concept house. But the woodwork, floors, and wainscoting made from trees logged on this property and the original plaster ceilings were still intact.

  We stacked items from the table on the sideboard and the chairs we lined against the wall, Quincy only hindering us a little. The mailing boxes went into the mudroom, ready for pickup by the shipping service. “I wondered what happened to this.” Grammie held up a glove, last seen in January.

  “And I have been looking everywhere for this.” I fished an envelope containing a check from a pile of junk mail and waved it. We weren’t neat freaks in the best of times, but the clutter had really gotten out of hand during Papa’s illness and death. I put my check on the mantel for safekeeping and picked up something I designed, tempted to show Grammie. My plan was for a big reveal at dinner tonight.

  Out on the road, an engine rumbled, then downshifted. I glanced out the front window and, as I suspected, the Antiques Barn van was turning into the drive. I hung the garment over a chair back. No time now. “They’re here.”

  Grammie used her apron to brush dust from the empty tabletop. “Perfect timing.”

  * * *

  Gary Ball was an older version of Anton, with the same bulky, strong body and beaky features. His black hair was only slightly streaked with gray despite his being the same age as Grammie, in his early seventies. He wore pressed blue work pants and shirt, like the ones Papa favored, and a ball cap embroidered with his business name.

  “Afternoon, ladies,” he said with a brusque nod. “Where’s my pickup?” His two muscular helpers, in their early twenties and wearing jeans, T-shirts, and work boots, hovered behind Gary, both giving me the eye. I smiled in a way that I hoped was friendly but not encouraging. My head was still full of Ian.

  “In the dining room,” Grammie said. “I think you’re going to need to take the legs off to get it out of there.”

  Gary grunted. “Get the tools,” he told the helpers. The one with the shaved head opened the van door and the shaggy-headed one grabbed a toolbox.

  Within a shorter time than I thought possible, the helpers had the table apart and were loading it in the van, using old blankets for padding. “I’ll have this ready for you in the next week or so,” Gary said as we stood in the door yard watching the guys do their thing. “Sorry I didn’t pick it up sooner but I’ve been totally backed up.”

  “I understand,” Grammie said. “Before you go, we have a question for you. Can you unlock an old rolltop desk?”

  Gary pushed his cap back then settled it more firmly. “I can take a peek, see what kind of lock it has.
I’ve got bunches of old keys but they’re back at the shop.”

  “Maybe you can bring them by sometime.” Grammie sounded as if she wasn’t in a hurry, probably a wise move. Why tip off anyone that valuables might be inside? “Follow me. It’s in the barn.”

  The three of us trudged across the gravel, me still limping but only a little. I pushed the sliding door open so we could enter and switched on the light, illuminating the main bay of the barn. A vintage BMW motorcycle lay in pieces in the center, Papa’s last project.

  Grammie made a muffled sound, a hand to her mouth. I felt it too, the sudden stab of realization that he was gone.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Gary said gruffly. “Joe was a good man. Long-time friend.” He placed a heavy hand on Grammie’s shoulder.

  “Thanks, Gary.” Grammie foraged in her apron pocket and pulled out a tissue. “I appreciate that.”

  The workshop was to the left and I pushed up on the latch and opened the door. Papa had insulated the walls and added a small woodstove so he could work out here all year round. Workbenches cluttered with projects and tools lined two walls, and his desk and an armchair were placed along another.

  “There’s the desk,” Grammie said helpfully, but Gary’s eyes were fixed on an old poster of a rock group called the Sea Dogs. Papa’s band, back in the seventies. He played guitar and sang, which I thought was really cool. According to Papa, the Sea Dogs had rocked Blueberry Cove for a couple of summers, drawing audiences from up and down the coast.

  His lips twisted in a rueful smile. “There we are, in all our glory.” He shuffled across the floor for a better look. “Yep, that’s me.” He pointed to the man seated behind the drum kit.

  “I’d forgotten that,” Grammie said, moving to stand beside him. “You weren’t in the band long.” She pointed out the other men. “Ted Perkins on bass, Fergus Stewart on keyboards, and believe it or not, Elliot Parker on guitar.”

  I studied the poster with fresh interest. I’d seen it a million times of course but had barely paid attention. All of them were pretty hot back then, even Elliot who had the lanky, spiky-haired rocker look going on. Ian’s grandfather, I thought, resembled his grandson. The bottom of the poster read, “Coming Soon to a Venue Near You—Summer of ’72.”

  The summer Star Moonshine disappeared.

  “Did you know Star?” I blurted, whipping my head around to stare at Gary.

  He stumbled backward a step, confusion creasing his brow. “Star? I don’t think—”

  “Surely you remember her, Gary,” Grammie said, her tone low and intense. “She was a fixture that summer.” She crossed her arms, hugging herself. “Until she disappeared.”

  “Didn’t you hear the news?” I asked him. Maybe Anton hadn’t told him yet. “We found Star’s skeleton today, hidden in the basement of the shop.”

  Gary’s hand went to his mouth and he shook his head. “No, I didn’t hear that.” His voice sounded strangled. “But who? How?”

  Grammie put a hand on his arm. “We don’t know yet. But yes, it’s horrible.”

  After a moment, he pulled himself together and cleared his throat. “Why don’t I take a look at that desk? Then we have to get on the road.”

  A short while later, we waved good-bye as Gary drove away. Next time he was in the neighborhood, he was going to try some keys on the rolltop.

  “He acted strange when I brought up Star,” I said. “Do you think he knows anything?”

  Grammie tilted her head with a frown. “Gary? No way. He’s always been a straight arrow, even back in the days of rock and roll.”

  But straight arrows could kill under the right circumstances, right? At least that was my presumption after devouring hundreds of mystery novels. Oh, and reading the news. How many killers were quiet, innocuous people, unsuspected by neighbors and friends?

  I flashed on Anton’s odd attitude when Grammie mentioned Star, back at the shop. Maybe he was afraid his grandfather had been involved in her death somehow.

  “While we were in the barn, I thought of something,” Grammie said. “Up in the loft, there’s a trunk full of stuff from before I was married. Photo albums, clothes, ticket stubs, you name it. Maybe even a diary detailing all my love affairs.” She grinned. “I might have thrown that away. I can’t remember.”

  “You think there’s anything in there about Star?” This was fantastic news. We might be able to at least identify some viable suspects.

  Grammie nodded. “Probably. At least some pictures with her in them. I used to be a photo fiend with my little Instamatic. I was at the drugstore every week, getting pictures developed.”

  I was about to suggest she go find the trunk—I couldn’t climb the ladder today with my injured ankle—when a man’s voice called, “Ahoy, there.”

  We turned to see Elliot tramping through the woods bordering our property. He emerged in front of the barn, swinging a walking stick. He wore khaki shorts, a windbreaker, and web sandals with socks, exposing long legs with knobby knees.

  My belly cramped with stress at the sight of our landlord. Was he going to evict us before we even moved in?

  CHAPTER 6

  With an annoyed sigh, Grammie pushed her hair back with both hands. “Elliot. What’s up?” She set her features in an exaggerated expression of stoic patience. I had to respect her for not kowtowing to the man.

  In response, he leisurely studied the yard, his gaze lingering on the flower beds and the robins hopping along the grass. “Lovely day today. Spring is here at last.” He stamped his stick into the ground. “Quite a to-do down in town, wasn’t it?” He thrust out his bottom lip. “They even got a forensic anthropologist down from Orono.”

  “From the University of Maine?” I asked. The university’s head campus was in Orono, near Bangor.

  His pale eyes flicked over to me. “I suppose.” He turned back to Grammie. “Do you really think it was Star?” His tone was somber. Had he cared for the young woman?

  By the way Grammie gnawed her lip, I could tell she was thinking about what to say. “I do,” she admitted. “But I guess it’s up to the police to find out for sure.”

  Elliot tamped his stick into the dirt, again and again. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to get out of the lease,” he finally said, a sly smile creeping over his chiseled features. “I’d be willing, under one condition.”

  Grammie folded her arms and tapped a toe. “And what would that be?”

  Encouraged, he moved closer, looming over my tiny grandmother. “I think you can guess.” He jerked his chin toward the road. “You didn’t respond to my last offer for the waterfront land.”

  I got it now. Elliot hoped to use our distaste about finding a body in our rental against us, to try to force us to sell him the acreage he coveted.

  A beige sedan turned in from the road and drove sedately up the drive, two female heads in the front seat. I didn’t recognize the car but the occupants, women about Grammie’s age, looked vaguely familiar.

  Grammie ignored the car as it pulled up nearby with windows open, the women craning their necks in curiosity. “For the last time,” she said with gritted teeth, punctuating each word with a poke to Elliot’s bony chest. Her face was fierce, tense with rage. “I am not going to sell my property.” For extra emphasis, she added, “Not over my dead body. Or yours.”

  Elliot drew himself up with a scowl, fists clenched and stick lifted. Before he could say a word, I stepped in. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” My voice was low but dead serious. “After the day we’ve had … after the year we’ve had … bullying a widow?” I scorched him with a glare until he clamped his mouth shut and stepped back. Next I whirled around to address the eavesdroppers in the car. “How can I help you?”

  They squawked and babbled like flustered hens until Grammie said, “They’re here for the cupcakes.” She sounded more like her old self now, I was glad to hear. Grammie hardly ever lost her temper but obviously Elliot had pushed her over the edge.

  “I�
�ll be right back.” I stomped off to the house, well, as best I could with my limping foot, and retrieved the plastic container from the mudroom. By the time I made it back outside, Elliot was halfway through the woods. I handed the container through the open window and the passenger took it. “Have a good day.”

  The driver backed down the driveway and sped off toward town.

  “Oh, Iris,” Grammie said, collapsing into my arms. “I can’t believe I did that.” Her shoulders shook and for a horrible second I thought she was crying. But when she looked up at me, I saw she was laughing. “Poor Mildred and Margery. They must have thought I lost it.”

  “Well, sometimes you need to lose it. Elliot is unbelievable.” I squeezed her in a big hug. “Let’s hope that, like most bullies, he backs off now that you stood up to him.”

  Grammie gave me a kiss on the cheek before pulling away. “I love you, my dear. I’m going in to get the chicken and dumplings started. Then I might climb up into the loft and look for that trunk.”

  “And I am going to check my email and fill some orders.” I said, strolling beside her to the house. “But first, I need to be fortified with another coffee and one of those cupcakes.”

  Quincy trailed along upstairs to my office, the back bedroom on the driveway side. I slept in the front bedroom on that side, and Grammie and Papa had renovated the two rooms across the hall into a master suite, including a new, spacious bathroom.

  Before settling at my desk, I popped into my bathroom, needing it after two cups of coffee. Grammie had offered to renovate, but I loved the porcelain pedestal sink and clawfoot tub, and even the ancient wallpaper, which depicted flowers twining over a lattice.

  In here, I could pretend it was 1920, when these fixtures had been installed, allowing the family to retire the outside outhouse. Oh, I knew full well the past wasn’t always rosy and of course I appreciated modern conveniences. But I enjoyed indulging my nostalgia for times gone by, appreciated their unselfconscious focus on family and home. A lot of people did, obviously, or my business wouldn’t be doing so well.