Hems & Homicide

by Elizabeth Penney

  Arms folded across her chest, she cocked her head as though trying to imagine that. “If you say so.”

  “You wouldn’t believe the stuff people buy now,” Gary said. “A lot of it’s not good enough to refinish so they paint it.” He flashed a smile. “Sure has helped my sales.”

  I thought of something. “Did you find the keys? For the desk?”

  Both helpers looked toward the closed door to the workshop. They remembered, even if Gary was scratching his head in confusion. “Oh yeah. And nope.” He shook his head. “Sorry about that. I’ll put that on my to-do list for tomorrow.”

  Tamping down my frustration, I smiled and said, “That’d be great.” If he didn’t get back to us in a day or so, I would call him. Maybe unlocking the desk wasn’t important to him, but Grammie and I needed to retrieve the contents.

  Before someone else got there first.

  * * *

  Ted Perkins lived out on one of the wide dirt roads that crisscrossed the countryside like a spiderweb. Car windows down, radio blaring, I zipped along in Beverly singing my heart out, which made Madison, in the passenger seat, roll her eyes. But she couldn’t resist harmonizing on the chorus, as I knew she would. I flashed on the two of us at age ten, wailing away as we shook our baby booties to Destiny’s Child. She’d made me enter the elementary school talent show that year. The memory still made me wince, definitely a top entry in my most embarrassing moments.

  The houses thinned and greening woods flashed by, followed by lush fields where calves scampered. At another farm, a herd of goats standing on a manure pile studied the car with their odd pupils. The road began to ascend, so I slowed to keep traction on the gravel. On top of the rise, a Colonial house sat in regal if battered splendor, outbuildings and acres of fields and woods spread behind like a queen’s train. The Perkins Farm.

  “I’ve always loved this place,” Madison said. “But I’ve never actually been here.”

  “Grammie and I used to buy Ted’s maple syrup.” I turned up a drive lined with sugar maples that had to be over one hundred years old. “I don’t think he taps the trees anymore.”

  So many Maine farms depended on seasonal crops like maple syrup, hay, and logging. Ted had saved the family property with a less orthodox crop, according to the rumors, an effort in line with his heritage, a grandfather who smuggled Canadian whiskey during Prohibition. Who could blame them? Maine was peppered with abandoned farms—and the graves of those who had struggled to wrest a living from cold, rocky soil.

  When we rolled to a stop beside a dark green pickup truck, Ted emerged from the house, wearing baggy, faded jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, a ball cap on his head. He waved, loping across the side porch and toward the car.

  I grabbed my tote and we climbed out. After an exchange of greetings, I said, “What a beautiful place.” Nearby, a shingled three-story post-and-beam barn dominated the farmyard. “Love that barn.”

  “Me too,” Madison said. “Okay if I take pictures?” At his nod, she began framing shots with her phone.

  Resting hands on his hips, Ted tipped his head back and studied the structure. “Used to have over a hundred head of dairy cattle when I was a kid. Long gone now.” Settling his cap more firmly, he offered, “Want a tour?”

  I dropped my tote. “Oh yeah.” The linens could wait. I never turned down a chance to explore historic barns and houses. Madison was equally a fan.

  The mingled aromas of hay, dust, and ancient manure greeted us as Ted rolled back the main door. Our barn would fit in one corner of this behemoth. Besides the structure itself with its soaring hand-hewn beams, the real attraction was a collection of carriages and wagons, including a surrey with a fringe on top.

  “You ever use these?” I asked, running my hand along the surrey’s leather seat. I imagined myself dressed in Victorian garb, riding smartly through town in the surrey. Madison wandered around, taking pictures of the carriages and the farm tools hanging from the walls and lined up on the floor.

  “Sometimes, in parades. Have to borrow a horse.” I felt his gaze on my face as I continued to admire the carriage. He lowered his voice. “That’s rough, the cops questioning Anne that way. I heard she hired an attorney.”

  I took a step backward, startled by the abrupt change of subject. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Madison had wandered out of sight. “It’s a hassle, for sure. But they’re only doing their jobs.”

  “Never fun dealing with the cops. Innocent or guilty.” His expression was placid, as though we were merely discussing the weather, but I sensed coiled tension under the calm. “See the paper today?”

  “The Herald?” The weekly edition came out every Thursday. “I haven’t.” I could imagine the headlines. Elliot’s murder was the biggest story to hit Blueberry Cove since, well, since the discovery of Star’s skeleton. Before that it was the 1938 hurricane or the forest fires in ’47 that wiped out nine towns.

  Ted ducked his head and blinked. At first I thought he had something in his eye, but soon I realized he was fighting back tears. “When I saw”—his Adam’s apple bobbed—“Star’s smiling face on the front page, well, it hit me.” He fisted his heart. “Right here. I guess I always thought she was off somewhere, married with a bunch of kids…” He dug around in his pocket and pulled out a red bandana, then blew his nose with a loud honk.

  Madison’s head popped out from behind a wall, her eyes wide with alarm. I gestured for her to come join us. What good was a partner who wandered off? He could have attacked me and thrown me in the buggy before she’d even notice. He looked pretty strong for a guy Grammie’s age. And although he seemed upset about Star, he still wasn’t off the hook for Elliot, as far as I was concerned.

  “It sounds like you cared about Star,” I said. “Was she your girlfriend?”

  He tucked the bandana away, his gaze shifting from mine. “Back then things were pretty casual. No one was serious, well, until they were. Like your Grammie and Joe. I was best man at their wedding.”

  Nice segue. Sensing I wouldn’t get anything more out of him, I said, “Can we take a look at those linens? Madison has to get going soon.”

  Behind Ted’s back, she mouthed, I do? I smiled and nodded.

  “All right, then. Let’s head into the house.” Ted led the way across wide worn floorboards toward the open doorway. “I’m thinking about entering a carriage or two in the Lobster Fest parade. You want to ride in the surrey?”

  “Heck, yeah,” I said. “I’ll even dress up.” Including an apron, of course. Maybe he’d let me put a Ruffles & Bows sign on the back. But as I followed him into the fresh air and sunshine, I realized this fun little event might not come to pass. Not if Ted was one of our killers.

  On the way to the house, I detoured to grab my tote while they went ahead inside. As I skirted the fender of the pickup truck, I noticed a couple of scratches and dents in one front fender. Huh. I leaned closer. Definitely some paint chips missing.

  Had Ted stalked us in his truck that foggy night? I should tell Anton about this—and about Ian’s key. With a sigh, I pulled out my phone and made the call.

  To my relief, I got voice mail. “Anton, this is Iris. Iris Buckley. A couple of things. I realized I should have told you that I gave Ian Stewart a key to my shop. Uh, before Elliot died. And I’ve seen a couple of green trucks, maybe like the one that hit Madison’s Mini.”

  Out of air, I sucked in a breath then blurted out the rest, fearing I would be cut off. “Ted Perkins and Ian both own green trucks. Another thing. Star Moonshine had an abusive boyfriend and he was in town before she died. Oh, and I got a weird text too. Forwarded it to you last night, after you left. In the excitement of the break-in, forgot to mention. Bye.”

  Talk about a mouthful. I tossed the phone into my tote, not exactly happy to have done my duty. Now I would pray that Ian didn’t find himself under the microscope—and figure out I put him there. That would certainly kill a potential relationship. Dad, how did you meet Mom? Well, when she turned
me in to the police, I realized what a wonderfully moral— Grrr.

  Madison and Ted were chatting in the kitchen, mugs of coffee in hand, when I entered. “Sorry, had to make a call,” I said. Ted’s kitchen looked exactly like an old-fashioned farm kitchen should—tall beadboard cabinets, a huge old chrome cooking and wood stove, and a cat curled up in a rocking chair.

  “Hey, baby,” I said, reaching out to pat the fluffy creature, who had striped fur and distinctive ear tufts, like a lynx. “Coon cat?”

  “Yep.” Ted picked up a fresh mug and poured me a cup. “That’s Daltrey, as in Roger.” Lead singer for the Who.

  Daltrey purred and rubbed his head against my fingers. His fur was deep and silky soft. What a handsome fellow. Stretching, he rested a paw against my jeans leg, a cat’s love tap. Quincy did the same thing when making new friends.

  “The linens are upstairs,” Ted said. “I’m finally getting around to sorting through generations of stuff.” He shuffled toward a hallway and we tagged along, coffee in hand. Each room we passed was crammed with antiques and belongings that had to date generations back, a real time capsule of a place.

  We went up a wide staircase to a landing with half a dozen doors. Ted pushed through an open doorway at the back and flicked a switch. I took in lilac wallpaper, lace curtains, an iron bedstead, and a floor stacked with boxes, trunks, and random items.

  “Sorry, it’s such a mess in here. We use it as a storage room.” Ted bent and lifted the lid of a cedar chest, revealing stacks of linens. On top was a pillowcase trimmed with lace, obviously handmade but expert. “This was my aunt Betty’s hope chest. But her fiancé died in World War II.”

  My breath caught. A world of heartbreak lay in that simple statement. “Are you sure you want me to buy her linens?” That was sad too, how family heirlooms were cast off into a wider, less caring world.

  “I’m sure,” he said. “I don’t have anyone to leave them to.” He cracked a grin. “And I know you’ll find good homes for it all.”

  I lowered myself to the floor. “I will, promise.” Madison sat beside me and Ted left us to sort and pick through the items. I wanted almost all of it, whitework sheets and pillowcases and table runners, colorful embroidered tablecloths and napkin sets, and most beautiful of all, a hand-stitched quilt in a double-wedding-ring pattern.

  Madison rubbed a gentle hand across the soft fabric of the quilt. “It’s so sad to think she never got to use this.”

  An idea dropped into my mind. “I’m going to buy it and keep it.”

  “For yourself?” She giggled. “Have someone in mind to share it with?”

  I nudged her with my elbow. “I’ll give it to whoever of my friends gets married first.” I wagged a finger. “So get to work.” This special quilt deserved to bless a marriage, even if not the original one planned.

  “Not me,” she said in mock horror. “Maybe Sophie.”

  Ted readily agreed to my offer with very little haggling. He helped us box up and stow my wonderful new purchases in Beverly’s backseat. “Thanks again, Ted,” I said, hand on the driver’s door. “If you find anything else, let me know.”

  He touched his fingers to his cap brim in a salute. “Will do. And Iris? It’s going to be okay. Anne and the store and all.”

  “I sure hope so,” I mumbled, wondering how he could be so certain. We climbed in as he trotted back into the house. “Ready for lunch?” I asked Madison, adjusting my rearview mirror. “Then I’m headed to the library to do some research.”

  “Sounds good,” Madison said. “How about the Mug-Up? I love their sandwiches.”

  “Me too.” The back deck overlooking the water should be open today. I enjoyed eating out there under an umbrella, watching boats move in and out of the harbor. I started the car, backed around to pull straight down the driveway, and we were off, headed back to town.

  A short distance from the farm, a dust cloud appeared, coming from the other direction. A blue Buick sedan of some age, what Mainers called a beater, used for winter driving and rough roads. “Boy, he’s driving fast,” Madison said.

  “And right in the middle of the road too. How annoying.” I kept an eye on the other driver as we drew closer, expecting they would edge over. Nope. The car kept coming, either playing a game of chicken or just oblivious.

  Finally, at the last moment, the driver swerved toward the other ditch—I was practically in mine already—and squeezed by. Even with only a few seconds to glance over, I recognized Margery, Grammie’s friend from the drugstore. Scowling at me, she made a rude gesture. Then she sped away, a cloud of dust rolling behind her.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Whoa,” Madison said, looking over her shoulder. “What’s up with her?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “But I’m kind of shocked.” A glance in my rearview informed me that she had swerved into Ted’s driveway and was racing up the hill. Huh. Had she wanted to buy the linens? Then I snorted at my naïveté. She was probably Ted’s lady friend. Grammie might know.

  Downtown, we parked in the public lot and walked to the Mug-Up, located a few doors from the Bean, on the same side. The deli was one big room, with a service counter to the left and a bank of windows in the back overlooking the harbor. They offered a selection of sandwiches, wraps, and sourdough paninis, but I had a simple favorite.

  “The classic Italian, please.” I told the counter server. “Mayo, no oil.” I turned to Madison. “My treat. What do you want?”

  Studying the blackboard on the wall, she tapped a finger on her lips. “The smoked turkey breast with avocado and bacon. Tomato and lettuce.”

  After I paid for the sandwiches and bottled water, we hovered near the counter, waiting for our order. The bells over the door jingled constantly as people went in and out. One such burst announced Charlotte Ramsey, the artist and Elliot’s “friend,” holding a small cardboard box. Ignoring us, she said to the counter help, “I have the festival rack cards. Okay if I put them out?”

  The server nodded toward a display of other brochures. “Go ahead.”

  Charlotte carried the box over and began loading an empty slot with the cards. Prominent at the top was the new mermaid logo.

  “I’d better go touch base with her,” Madison said. “We’re supposed to be coordinating the marketing and outreach.”

  I tagged along, keeping one ear open for the shout of my name when lunch was ready. Charlotte didn’t look up when we approached, her focus on her task.

  “Hey, Charlotte,” Madison said, reaching for one of the cards. “These turned out great.” She flipped it back and front, checking the information about the upcoming event.

  The artist nodded. She seemed more subdued than usual, I noticed, and she had violet shadows under her eyes. Elliot. Maybe they had been involved and she was in mourning. But saying I was sorry for her loss didn’t feel quite right.

  “Are you still having the painting class tonight?” I asked. “I’m planning to come.”

  She whirled around to face me, a furious line between her plucked brows. “Why wouldn’t I? How else am I going to pay my rent?” She leaned close to us, lowering her voice. “That witch bumped it up, starting next month. Do you believe it?”

  Three guesses who the witch was. Had to be Nancy, since the Parkers owned Charlotte’s building.

  Madison folded her arms and gave Charlotte a dirty look. “That witch just lost her husband,” she said. “So maybe temper the animosity right now?”

  Charlotte tossed her head with a huff, bright spots of color flaming in her cheeks. But instead of saying something to Madison, she turned to me. “Did they arrest your grandmother yet? The apron was a nice touch.”

  I literally felt my mouth flap like a fish gasping for air. Before I could formulate a retort, Charlotte grabbed her box and pushed past us and out of the deli, the bells jingling. “I guess I’m not going to her class,” I finally managed to say.

  “Iris,” the server called. “Order up. Iris?”

  M
adison took my arm as we moved toward the pickup area. “Yes you are. She was close to Elliot, so we need to stick close to her.” She leaned on me briefly to demonstrate.

  We ate on the deck, shaded from the direct sun by the umbrella but warm in the shelter of the building. Jake’s lobster boat, the Maggie May, named after his mother, was moored at his dock, rocking gently as the tide came in.

  Seeing Jake’s boat made me think of Ian, not that he was far from my mind, especially after the call to Anton. I didn’t want to get into that yet so I said, “Ian offered to put together Papa’s BMW motorcycle for me.” I took my first big bite of Italian sandwich, a swoonworthy concoction of ham, American cheese, pickles, tomatoes, black olives, onions, and green peppers on soft, sweet bread. A tasty Maine original.

  “Told you,” Madison said with a grin. “When did that happen?”

  I retrieved a stray black olive and popped it into my mouth. “This morning. He and Jake came over to move Papa’s desk into the house.” I’d told her about the attempted break-in already.

  “Does he want to buy it?” Madison asked. “I can just see him riding it around town.” She shook a hand, as if burned. “Hot.”

  “We didn’t get that far.” Even the mention of his offer made my cheekbones heat. “He doesn’t want any money, he said.”

  “Even better.” Madison took a long swig of water, studying me with narrow eyes. “What’s bugging you?”

  She knew me too well. My belly tightened at the prospect of confiding how I ratted out Ian so I set the sandwich down. It was too good to wolf down because of nerves rather than savor each bite.

  I sipped water to ease a dry throat. “When Gram and I were talking to Cookie—the lawyer—I remembered that Ian has a store key. But I didn’t tell the police that. It didn’t come up.” I rolled my shoulders, trying to ease tension. “So this morning, I called Anton and left a message. I also mentioned that he has a green truck.” My heart sank. Ian was not going to be happy when Anton called.