Hems & Homicide

by Elizabeth Penney

  “Of course.” Ian’s nod told me he understood that I didn’t want to see Star’s burial site. No, in the best tradition of adamant denial, we’d block the spot and pretend it didn’t exist.

  While Ian and Barry moved the shelves back into place, I took the opportunity to check out the restroom more thoroughly. Oh my. With disgust, I took in the curling, filthy linoleum on the floor, a dripping sink, and a toilet that didn’t flush right. But a fresh coat of paint and new flooring would make the space acceptable, at least. I snapped a few photographs and sent them to Madison, receiving UGH!! back as a comment.

  I know, right? I wrote. On the to-do list. Then I tucked my phone away and pulled down the mask. Time to go into the dungeon.

  In preparation for his work, which would require cutting the power, Barry had set up glaring battery-operated standing lights, the kind of thing used to explore underground caves, I imagined. The enhanced lighting didn’t improve the basement’s atmosphere any. It was still cramped, claustrophobic, and creepy.

  Watching for spiderweb booby traps, I made my way down the rickety staircase. Ian had thoughtfully brought down a couple of brooms, a dustpan, and a plastic trash can, and they were propped next to the metal shelving. Ian and Barry were standing near the electrical box on the other wall, staring into the far reaches of the basement.

  “Hey,” I called. “Find anything interesting?” I picked my way over broken glass to where both men were standing.

  “We were checking out the heating system,” Ian said. He pointed to a behemoth boiler with many arms that stood next to an oil tank. Between here and there, mysterious tarp-draped objects partially filled the space. I shivered. Did I dare take a peek underneath?

  While they did a cursory examination of the system, especially the electrical connections and safety features, I lifted a corner of the first tarp, then the next, finding junky old furniture for the most part. But one piece was nice, an apothecary cabinet with several dozen tiny drawers. Perfect for the sewing studio, to hold buttons, thread, trims, and the like.

  I pulled on a couple of drawers but they were swollen shut due to the dampness of the cellar. Maybe some time in the sun and the cabinet would dry out. I had to ask Elliot’s permission first, of course, before I dragged it upstairs.

  Next I swept up the mess with Ian’s help, cringing at the fact a previous tenant had saved about a million empty jars, many of them now smashed on the concrete floor. Something gold glittered among the shards in a far corner, and I retrieved it, careful not to get cut. A tiny rose, like a charm or something off a necklace. I set that and several stray pennies and nickels on the metal shelves, not wanting to throw them away. The remaining stuff I arranged neatly, again planning to ask Elliot what he wanted to do with the dried cans of paint and coffee cans full of nails and screws.

  Ian opened a couple of windows to air the place out, and then he and I went upstairs while Barry started working on the electrical panel.

  “I could use some fresh air,” I said, sneezing despite the dust mask, which I now pulled off. “I think I’ll walk down to the property-management office and give Elliot a key.” We had made half a dozen copies at the building-supply store. “And I want you to take one.” That way he could come in and work without me driving to town to unlock the place.

  Ian put the store key on his ring. “While you’re gone, I’ll finish up the front door locks and start mudding the walls,” he said. He fished in his pocket for bills. “Can you please grab me a bottled water at the store while you’re out?”

  “Of course.” I zipped the new key into a pocket in my handbag and pocketed the money. “See you in a bit.”

  Before setting off down the street, I took a moment to study the storefront. We’d already ordered a sign to be installed flat against the building above the front entrance and picture windows. I imagined the script RUFFLES & BOWS in place above enticing window displays. Many linens and aprons featured seasonal prints so I planned to create monthly window themes. Why use a plain white tablecloth when you could have one for every occasion? That was my sales pitch, anyway.

  Still mulling my early-summer theme, important since it would be our kickoff, I strolled down the sidewalk checking out the other businesses. Blueberry Cove’s Main Street was a wonderful place to spend an afternoon, browsing in stores or eating at the Bean, the Mug-Up Deli, or the Miss Blueberry Cove Diner. Clean, the green living and health food store, offered cool and trendy items, and Handmade on Main showcased crafts from Maine and around the world.

  The Classic Canvas, Charlotte’s gallery, was on Harbor Street, which intersected Main. As I walked by, I saw her chatting with Nancy Parker on the sidewalk in front. I gave her a friendly wave, and in response, the artist pointedly turned her back and ushered Nancy inside. Nice. She was still being rude to me.

  Laughing to myself, I continued past the drugstore and bank, Great Outdoors Sporting Goods, and the diner, on the corner of Lake Street. As one might guess, this road led to Julep Lake, located a few miles north of town.

  Traffic had increased in town so much they finally put in a crosswalk light at this intersection. After waiting forever like a good citizen, I crossed to Parker Properties, located on the opposite corner.

  A brass plaque beside the front door announced that Elliot’s ancestor, Jeremiah Jedediah Parker, “intrepid explorer of world and sea,” built the house in 1840. Inside, the soaring entrance hall with its flying staircase was hushed. Straight ahead, a massive portrait dominated the room, impossible to miss. Nancy, elegant in a Chanel suit, sat in an ornate chair, hands clasped and ankles crossed. Wearing yacht club blazer and tie, Elliot stood behind his wife, one hand resting proudly on her shoulder. The perfect upper-class couple, Maine-coast style.

  Tearing my gaze away from the oddly compelling portrait, I peeked through an archway to the right. The reception desk was empty. Elliot’s office door was also closed, and as I contemplated my options, the sound of raised voices penetrated the thick wood.

  The door to the office flew open. “I’m contacting my attorney,” a male voice barked. “You are not going to get away with this. A deal is a deal.”

  CHAPTER 12

  I winced, hating to be caught eavesdropping, no matter how inadvertently. But before I could either flee or hide, Ted Perkins emerged from Elliot’s office. How odd to run into him twice in one day.

  Arms swinging, the farmer stormed across the reception office, footsteps muffled by the dense carpet. Just before he ran into me, he glanced up, baring his teeth in a humorless smile. “Better watch your six, Iris,” he said. “Kinda hard to pull a knife out of your back.” He pushed past and hurried through the front door. Slammed that one too, so hard the portrait shook.

  That was interesting. Elliot spread goodness and light wherever he went, it seemed. I waited a full minute before approaching the office, not wanting him to know I’d overheard the argument. Well, the tail end of it.

  “Knock, knock,” I said, rapping my knuckles on the doorjamb.

  Elliot looked up from behind his desk, placed in a bay window overlooking the street. He set aside some papers and stood. “How can I help you, Iris?” A brief smile warmed his glacial blue eyes. “Here to give me good news from your grandmother?”

  Not hardly, but I had to give him points for sheer chutzpah. I didn’t bother to answer his question. Instead I unzipped the pocket in my handbag and extracted the new key. “We changed the locks today because the back one sticks. I have a new key for you.” I crossed the carpet and placed it on his desk.

  Staring at the key, he sank into his chair. “Have a seat.”

  I perched on the edge of a guest chair, immediately regretting my knee-jerk politeness. “I can’t stay long. We’re in the middle of renovations.” He had two framed photographs on the desk, I noticed, Elliot and Nancy on a sailboat in one and playing golf in the other. I wondered if she’d put up the portrait and provided the photographs, to remind her errant husband of her existence.

&nbs
p; Elliot picked up a plastic shake container holding a disgusting green liquid and sipped on a straw, rocking back and forth in his chair. His chair squeaked with every movement. “How’s it going?” he asked between mouthfuls.

  “Pretty good.” I remembered the estimate from Barry and pulled it out of my bag. I placed it on the desk. “Barry Wills is at the store right now fixing some electrical issues. That expense is in your bucket, according to the lease.”

  Elliot picked up the page, glanced at it and threw it down. “Seems reasonable.” He continued to rock and sip. “Have you tried green smoothies? They’re an easy way to get your veggies and vitamins. A friend of mine turned me on to them and now I drink a couple every day.”

  “Uh, no.” I preferred my vegetables in whole form, not liquefied. “There is something else though. I found an old chest in the cellar. Mind if I use it?” I described it to him.

  “Sure, sure. Anything in the building is fair game.” Squeak, squeak.

  How soon could I get out of here? But I wanted to stay on good terms with the man as long as he owned our storefront. “We also found some cool old posters in the smaller front room, under the paneling. Do you want them?”

  He stopped moving. “I’d forgotten about those. I put them up when I lived in the building. That was my ‘pad.’”

  I didn’t mention that Charlotte had told me that. But here was an opening. “Really? Who else lived there?” At his frown, I added, “Did my grandfather? I know you were in the same band.” Gary’s remark about Papa’s involvement with Star twisted in my gut like a knife.

  Elliot leaned back, rubbing his chin. “No, Joe never lived there. Ted Perkins, Fergus Stewart, even Gary Ball for a while. Maybe some others.” His grin made him look much younger. “Can’t quite remember after all this time.” He exaggerated his Maine drawl enough that I wondered if it was even authentic. I also wondered if his claim of forgetfulness was real.

  Questions about that time in his life and Star pressed against my lips, but caution held them back. It was much safer to circle the subject, to see what he might reveal. But before I could formulate anything, he said, “I’ve arranged burial for Star out on the Point. Once they, uh, release her body.”

  “At Our Lady of the Seas?” Located out near the lighthouse, the small Catholic church had a beautiful burial ground overlooking the water. “That’s generous of you.”

  He shuffled some papers, not meeting my gaze. “Least I could do, under the circumstances. After her, uh, mishap, on my property.” His smile was brief. “What a tragedy, gone so young. As the Whittier poem says about sad words, ‘The saddest are these, It might have been.’”

  His reasoning made sense but I couldn’t help but wonder if he was trying to deflect suspicion by being the good guy. From what I gathered, Elliot wasn’t exactly known for acts of charity.

  I rose to my feet. “I better let you get back to work. And I’ll tell Barry you’ll be taking care of his bill. Thanks for that.” I moved with purpose toward the doorway, eager to get back to the shop.

  “Iris.” His voice halted me and I turned to face him. “I’d be much obliged if you’d talk to your grandmother.” He gave me an ah-shucks grin that didn’t fool me a bit. “Really would like to buy that land.” His wink was gruesome. “And I’m sure you could use the cash, starting a business and all.”

  Not trusting myself to speak civil words, I shook my head and strode away quickly.

  * * *

  The state police cruiser was in the yard when I got home about quarter to five. Super. There went my moment to chill before the inquisition, I mean questioning. I parked and rushed toward the house, barely sparing a glance for Quincy, who sat square in a patch of tulips, squashing a few. Where he wasn’t supposed to be and he knew it. I swear he looked disappointed that I didn’t stop to scold him.

  When I burst into the kitchen, a state officer in a blue uniform was standing at the island. His shaved head swiveled toward me but my gaze went to Grammie, who was crying, both hands over her face.

  “Grammie. What’s wrong?” I flew to her side, frowning at the officer. “What did you do to her?”

  He shifted, uncomfortable at this accusation, then said, “Not a thing, ma’am. Honest.”

  “I’m okay, dear.” Grammie wiped her eyes with a tissue and blew her nose. “Really.” She attempted a laugh and then sniffed. “It just hit me, I guess. I mean, I already guessed what happened but to hear it said out loud, so bluntly…”

  “What are you talking about?” I spun around to the officer.

  He cleared his throat. “Star Moonshine’s death has been ruled a homicide.”

  Grammie was right. Despite knowing it was coming, the news still stunned me. I gripped the edge of the counter, to steady myself. “Homicide. How could they tell?”

  His headshake was rueful. “We can’t say, ma’am. We’re not releasing that information yet.” He touched a hand to his hat brim. “Detective Varney. And you are?”

  I nodded a greeting. “Iris Buckley, as you probably guessed.” Grammie had made a pot of coffee so I poured a mug. I didn’t usually drink coffee this late in the day but I felt in need of a boost.

  After I returned to the island, taking a seat next to Grammie for solidarity, the detective glanced at his tablet. “I understand you found the body, Miss Buckley.”

  “I did.” Once again I went through the sequence of events. Grammie chimed in with her initial identification, due to the headscarf.

  “So far, all we have to go on is the scarf,” Varney admitted. “We didn’t find any ID on the body. But there is this.” He pulled out a plastic evidence bag holding a woven leather bracelet trimmed with turquoise beads.

  Tears welled up in Grammie’s eyes again. She dabbed at them with a fresh tissue. “That’s Star’s bracelet. She always wore it.”

  “And when did you last see Star? Do you remember?”

  Grammie nodded. “I think so. I’ve been giving it a lot of thought. Sometime around the Fourth of July. A lot was going on in town, fireworks, concerts, parties. I lost track of her, I remember, and never saw her again after the holiday. I thought she left town. She had been talking about it.”

  “That’s excellent,” Varney said. “You’re really narrowing it down for us.”

  But all the police really knew is that a woman named Star wasn’t seen in Blueberry Cove after the Fourth of July in 1972. Surely they needed more than that to positively identify the skeleton, despite the scarf and bracelet.

  “I suppose it’s hard to be absolutely certain the skeleton is Star,” I said. “You don’t even have Star’s real name for dental and medical records. Or to verify that she really is dead.” For all we knew, Star was alive somewhere, a grandmother by now, probably.

  “You’re correct,” Varney said. “We’re in the process of searching nationwide missing persons reports for the time period. But until we get a hit, if we get one, that is, we’re relying on what people who knew her can tell us.” He paused, his keen blue eyes searching our faces. “Was she involved with someone, Mrs. Buckley?”

  Papa. I made a squeak that drew his questioning attention. Oops. “Uh, of course I don’t know the answer,” I said, “since I wasn’t even born yet, but I did talk to Elliot Parker today. He’s our landlord as you probably know.” I was babbling but not going to stop now. “He mentioned he was paying for Star’s burial plot. Which was real nice of him but kind of interesting, don’t you think? He used to live in the building where we found her. So did Gary Ball, Ted Perkins, and Fergus Stewart, he said.” I felt a pang at throwing Ian’s grandfather under the bus, but the others? Not so much. As long as no one suspected Papa. “So maybe Elliot or one of the other men knows something.”

  Varney made notes in his tablet. I had a feeling the men I mentioned were all going to get visits shortly.

  “Anything to add, Mrs. Buckley?” Varney inquired.

  Grammie tore her puzzled gaze from my face. “Star did have a boyfriend she was concerned
about, someone from a previous residence.” She put up a hand to forestall. “But I can’t recall the town. Anyway, I had the impression that he was abusive.”

  Varney mulled that over. “Can you think about it and see what you remember?” He shook his head and sighed. “I know it’s going to be a stretch to get useful testimony regarding an incident forty years ago.”

  “We did find a picture of Star,” Grammie said. “Do you have it, Iris?”

  “I sure do.” I slid off my stool and went to my handbag, which was on the counter near the door. I retrieved the envelope and handed it to Varney. “I made a copy so we could keep one for us.”

  He flipped the envelope open and extracted the two photographs, sliding the original into an evidence bag and noting the source. The copy he left on the counter. “Who took the photograph?”

  “I’m not sure,” Grammie said. “And I might have others. I’ll have to look.”

  “Please do. I think we’re all set here,” Varney said, picking up his tablet and the evidence bags. “But please, Mrs. Buckley, Miss Buckley, call us any time. We appreciate your help.”

  Grammie’s lips trembled with emotion. “I hope we can help you. My poor friend was deprived of her life. At the very least, she deserves justice.”

  Varney saluted her with fingers to his hat brim. “Well put, Mrs. Buckley. Well put. I’ll show myself out.”

  Once the back door shut behind him, I sank onto a stool and propped my head on my hands. “I’m glad that’s over.”

  Grammie threw me an ironic glance. “What did you think would happen? He would drag you off and interrogate you under bright lights?” She carried our mugs over to the coffee maker and refilled them.

  I laughed. “I guess so, in the back of my mind. It’s like when a cruiser pulls up behind you. You feel as if you must be guilty of something.”

  “I suppose we all are,” Grammie mused. “This whole situation is bringing up some memories I’d rather not revisit. The seventies were a wild time. Those of us fortunate to survive intact had to straighten up our acts.”