Hems & Homicide

by Elizabeth Penney

  “That’s right, he does.” Madison tilted her head, thinking. “So does Ted.” She gestured widely. “So do a lot of people. Don’t feel too bad. You were just doing your civic duty.”

  I hoped Ian saw it that way. “Ted’s truck is scratched too, I noticed. I told Anton that.” Feeling slightly less tense after confiding in Madison, I dared another nibble of sandwich. Then I remembered yet another piece of news. “Did I tell you about the weird text I got? Right after you all left last night?”

  Madison made an exaggerated frown face. “No, and why are you holding out on me? You know I need to know everything.” She laughed.

  I scrolled through my phone. “I guess so much is happening, I’m falling down on the job.” I handed it over. “Here.”

  She studied the text in silence for a long moment. “Huh. I wonder what they’re referring to. It almost sounds like they think Elliot killed Star.”

  “That’s what I thought too.” I took another mouthful. “But maybe not. That’s why we better keep digging.”

  * * *

  The latest edition of the Herald was the first thing I saw when we walked into the library after lunch. Well, almost the first. Before that I noticed that the library was basically empty except for an older woman behind the desk and another sliding books onto shelves in the fiction stacks.

  I picked up the top newspaper off the stack resting on a table near the front door. Above the fold, a huge headline read, “Prominent Local Businessman Dies Wearing Apron.”

  Seriously. Did Lars really have to do that? Madison read the headline over my shoulder and gave a loud guffaw. The librarian behind the desk made a tut-tut of disapproval. At the familiar sound, I recognized Mildred, the woman who had picked up cupcakes at our house. She’d been the librarian forever, though we called her Mrs. Bates as children.

  I flipped the paper over. Below the fold, Grammie’s picture of Star was front and center, the enlargement grainy. Grammie and Margery had been cropped out. “Do you know Star Moonshine?” that headline screamed. “Information on Jane Doe sought,” was on the line below, in a smaller font.

  “Take a copy,” Madison whispered in my ear. “We need to read it.”

  “And I need to kill Lars Lavely.” But I folded the paper and slid it into my tote, and we continued across the polished marble floor, our sneakers squeaking. Blueberry Cove, like many Maine towns, was blessed with an Andrew Carnegie library. Ours featured stained-glass windows, arches and columns between rooms, and soaring ceilings. A beautiful temple to learning, Mrs. Bates had told us when we took our first tour as a class field trip.

  “How can I help you?” Mildred asked as we approached the front desk. Her severe expression lightened a fraction. “You’re Anne’s granddaughter. And Dr. Morris’s daughter.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “We’ve been coming here since we were kids.” I looked around the big room. “Such a gorgeous building. Blueberry Cove is lucky to have it.”

  “It is, isn’t it? One of the finest in the county.” Mildred preened as if she were responsible for the library’s existence. She fixed an expectant look on her face, my cue to speak.

  “We’d like to look at the newspaper archives,” I said. “Can you direct us to the microfilm reader? And give us the password to the online databases?”

  Mildred reached into a small box on the desk and handed us a slip of paper. “This is the password. And the microfilm reader is in the archives room.” She picked up a coiled key ring and slid it onto her wrist. “I’ll unlock it for you.”

  As we trailed her across the library, through the reading room and skirting the stacks, I racked my brain, trying to figure out how to open a conversation. She was acquainted with Grammie and Margery, so maybe she knew something about Star.

  Mildred unlocked a door marked ARCHIVES, behind the last set of stacks. Back here, the air was stuffy and hot, the odors of ink and paper and polished wood almost overwhelming. “We keep this locked, ever since some first editions of historical books walked out.” Mildred flipped a light switch, revealing a sizable room with metal shelving stuffed with books and boxes in the middle and file cabinets along the walls. A couple of long tables and desks holding a computer and a microfilm reader completed the furnishings. She flipped another switch, causing ceiling fans to turn lazily. The only other light was provided by a set of high windows in the rear wall that appeared to be painted shut.

  “These drawers have the microfilm boxes.” Mildred tapped the top of a file cabinet. “They’re filed by publication and then date.” She gave me a sharp look. “You ever use microfilm before?”

  “All the time,” I hastened to assure her. “In college. Madison too.” Madison smiled and nodded.

  Mildred harrumphed before turning on the machine to warm up. “Put everything back where you found it, please.” She straightened and turned to face us. “Anything else I can do for you?”

  Here was my opportunity. “Actually, there is,” I said. “Did you know Star Moonshine? I know Grammie and Margery were her friends.”

  Another harrumph was her response. “I was a bit … more mature, shall we say, when the likes of Star Moonshine were running around town.” She tugged at the hem of her sweater with both hands. “Got married in 1970, right before my husband was shipped off to Vietnam.” Her mouth turned down. “Never had any use for hippies and the like.”

  “So you didn’t know Star?” I wanted to be absolutely sure.

  Mildred pursed her lips. “I’m afraid not. I had my hands full raising my firstborn alone. Sorry I can’t help you.”

  “Thanks anyway,” I said. That was a disappointment. After she left, I closed the archives-room door for extra privacy. Hopefully we wouldn’t suffocate in here. Mildred’s comments made me think about the early seventies, a fraught time in the country’s history from what I’d read. Members of the same generation were split over the contentious Vietnam War.

  Madison was loading a roll of Herald microfilm when my phone rang out, as shrill as a fire alarm. “I can’t believe I have service in here,” I said, hurrying to answer before Mildred chewed me out. “Hello?” I whispered, not even checking the number.

  “Iris?” It was Anton, speaking normally of course. “Why are you whispering?”

  “I’m at the library,” I explained. “Hold on, I’m going to go outside.” To Madison, I said, “Anton, calling me back. Start without me.”

  I slipped out of the archives room, shutting the door gently behind me. Rather than go all the way out front, I skirted the last row of stacks to the rear entrance. After propping the door open so I could get back in, I sat on the top step.

  “Okay,” I said in my normal voice. “I can talk now.” From my perch, I had a view of a small back lawn bordered by a stone wall and a band of trees. Beyond was a back yard where children played on a swing set, snatches of shouts and laughter drifting my way.

  Anton chuckled. “Is Mrs. Bates still scary?”

  “She sure is.” I took a breath. “I take it you got my message.”

  “Yeah, and it was a mouthful.” Anton shuffled papers. “Want to take it from the top?”

  My mind went blank. Oh yeah, the key and the trucks, and the text. And Star’s ex-boyfriend. I began with the text. “Did you get the message I forwarded you?”

  “I did. I made out an official report for that and the email, if you want to come by and sign it.”

  “I’ll do that.” Maybe it wouldn’t actually do much to catch the perpetrator but it would feel good. “Think they can be traced?”

  His desk chair made a horrendous squealing sound. At least, I hoped it was the chair. “To be honest, I doubt we’ll be able to trace either,” he said. “But I can have the state tech specialists take a look.”

  “Please do.” Not ready to discuss Ian, I moved on to a less personal topic. “We were looking through Grammie’s old pictures last night, and we found one with Star’s ex-boyfriend, Baggie Bevins. She said Star broke up with him because he was v
iolent. He came to Blueberry Cove around the time of her death.”

  Anton whistled, long and low. “Thanks, Iris. This could be a solid lead. What did you say his first name was?”

  “Baggie. Obviously a nickname. She didn’t know his real name. Or where he was from either. Maybe Liberty or one of those other patriotic-named towns, she said.”

  Anton grunted. “So we have a victim with a fake name and maybe a perp with the same. Talk about falling down the rabbit hole.”

  “That’s the seventies for you.” I shifted on the step, which was super uncomfortable, then stood before certain body parts could go numb. “I’ll bring the picture when I come by to sign the report.”

  “And I’ll put in a request to records, see what we have on Mr. Bevins, first name unknown.” Anton tapped on computer keys, which was also surprisingly audible. He must have me on speaker.

  Now the moment of truth was upon me. “Um.” Great start. “Yeah, well, as you heard, Ian Stewart has a key to the store, as does—did—Elliot. I should have told you that sooner.”

  The tapping stopped and a printer began to grind. “We should have asked you. We’ll take it from here, okay? And when we get the paint sample back from the lab, I’ll follow up on the trucks you mentioned.” He paused. “Tell Madison I haven’t forgotten about the hit-and-run. If you see her.” He sounded oddly tentative, for him.

  And then I just knew, the way something pops into your mind with the ring of truth. Anton likes Madison. As in, had a crush on my friend. This inadvertent admission on his part made me so excited I trotted down the steps. “She’s actually with me, here at the library.” I heard the note of glee in my voice and tried to quash it. “I mean, I will inform Miss Morris that the police are still investigating the not-so-accidental hit-and-run.”

  The chief was silent, for once not quick to retort. “I’ll be in touch,” he finally said before disconnecting.

  Giggling to myself, I climbed the steps to go back inside. The door I had carefully propped open was shut. And locked.

  “What happened to you?” Madison looked up from the microfilm when I entered the archives room a few minutes later. “You were gone a long time.”

  “Someone locked me out.” And may have been eavesdropping. “I had to walk all the way around the building to get back in.”

  “Bummer.” Madison gestured. “Come look at this. I found something.”

  I scooted a chair up beside her and squinted at the screen, which wasn’t that easy to read. “Water Main Break Forces Shutdown,” I read. “Okay, what does that mean?”

  “It happened the week leading up to the Fourth, right before Star disappeared,” Madison said with excitement. “They had to turn off the water at that end of Main Street. Which meant that anyone living at 33 had to vacate until it was fixed.” She flipped ahead to the next issue, which was after the Fourth. The Herald had always been a weekly. “Water Woes Continue on Main Street,” read the headline.

  I got it. “The building was empty when Star was killed. That’s why the killer was able to hide her body without anyone else seeing them.” I pictured the killer bricking up the wall, alone in the quiet building while revelers in the streets enjoyed the national holiday.

  Madison hit a button to send the stories to the printer. “What next?”

  “Let’s keep going, see if there is anything mentioning Star. Or any of the gang.”

  Madison scrolled through the pages of the Herald with me looking on, occasionally stopping to exclaim over a quaint advertisement or interesting story. The Sea Dogs were mentioned in a couple of articles as “a hot young local band,” and the inaugural Lobster Fest was held, complete with king and queen. I studied the photograph of the handsome couple, both grinning like fools with lobster hats on their heads. “That’s Elliot and Nancy.”

  “So it is.” Madison read the caption. “Huh. Recently engaged, it says.”

  “Print that too. And the articles on the band.” I had no idea if any of it was relevant but we could put it in the file.

  After we found—and printed—Grammie’s wedding announcement in August of that year, we called it a day. “Looking at microfilm makes me sick,” I said. “I don’t know if it’s the motion or the smell.”

  “The odor is from the old acetate film.” Madison removed the roll and put it into the box. “It’s actually decaying as we speak.” She opened the file drawer and placed the box inside.

  “Yuck.” I glanced at the closest shelves. Local-history titles, documents standing in those cardboard periodical holders, binders holding geological and property records. This place was a trove of information.

  “Want to keep looking or are we done for the day?” Madison asked. She tapped the cabinet. “There are newspapers from all over the state in here.”

  Star lived on a commune. Bevins came from near Liberty, Maine. Had the commune been in Liberty or one of the other towns? I could take a little more acetate odor, I decided, and try to find out.

  We used the library computer to search online and find the right paper, one that was in business in the 1970s. Then Madison located a roll for that paper with the same dates we’d searched in the Herald and spooled it up.

  “This could be a needle in a haystack,” I said, realizing the magnitude of the task. The commune might not have been mentioned in the paper during that time period. Would we have to search through years, if not decades? “I have an idea. Why don’t I do a wider online search of more recent papers? See if any communes are mentioned.”

  “Good idea,” Madison said. “Especially since we have no idea exactly what we’re looking for.”

  Side by side, we worked in silence for a little while. On a browser, I searched quite broadly for “commune, Waldo County, Maine,” and found some articles. A retrospective feature on the back-to-the-land days mentioned two communes in Liberty. “Look for Foster Hill and the Bards on Stratford communes,” I said. That last name was intriguing, if a slightly pretentious nod to Shakespeare, who lived on Stratford-upon-Avon in England.

  “My eyes are going crazy,” Madison muttered, but she valiantly kept searching. “Ah, here are the Bards.” A photograph depicted half a dozen members dressed in medieval garb and playing flutes and drums at an outside performance. “‘The Bards raise pigs, apples, and organic vegetables at an old farm on Stratford Road,’” she read. “And play music while strangely dressed,” she added. “Send to print. I haven’t seen anything about Foster Hill, by the way.”

  “We’ll have to go to Liberty and see what we can find out,” I said, closing the browser. Maybe we’d be lucky and someone from the old days would still be around.

  We gathered our bags and went out to the front desk, where the printed pages waited. Mildred was nowhere in sight and Ian’s mother, Fiona Stewart, was behind the desk. “Hi, Mrs. Stewart,” I said. “I’m Iris Buckley, from the festival committee.”

  She nodded, her green eyes, so like Ian’s, only hers were cold and unfriendly. “I remember.”

  My stomach sank to my knees. Had she overheard my conversation with Anton? Or had Ian called her to complain about me ratting him out to the police? My first call would be Grammie if that happened to me.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked, looking at my hands, which were empty of books.

  “We printed some articles,” Madison said, pointing to the tray. “How much?”

  “Ten cents per page.” Fiona picked up the sheets and flipped through them, stopped and stared, then counted again. “Seventy cents.” She put the sheaf on the counter and tapped it with her knuckles. By the way her jaw was working, it appeared she was practically biting her tongue not to say something.

  I dug some dimes out of my wallet and gathered the pages. “Thanks so much, Mrs. Stewart. Please say hi to Ian for me. He’s helping me renovate the store. You know, Ruffles and Bows, on Main Street.” Hearing myself begin to babble, I forced myself to stop talking.

  “Is that so?” Fiona’s brows were twin arches. “Hope
it’s a roaring success.” Her tone conveyed the opposite, giving me the distinct impression that she didn’t like me. Yet another nail in the coffin of my friendship—and hopefully more—with Ian. We were off on the wrong foot, for sure.

  CHAPTER 20

  Madison and I parted outside the library with a promise to meet later for the painting class that evening. Hopefully Charlotte wouldn’t bar the door to me.

  I hopped into Beverly and drove home, my mind on the afternoon ahead. After I unloaded and inventoried my delicious new purchases, I would have to pop back into town to make a copy of Baggie’s photo before stopping by the police station.

  Grammie was outside when I pulled in, planting seeds in the vegetable garden with Quincy’s help. She rose to her feet, stripping off garden gloves. “Spinach, peas, chard, and kale are in.”

  “Good work.” I opened the back door of the car. “Want to see what I bought?”

  She did, and so did Quincy, who hopped into the car and sat on a box of linens. “Get out of there.” I gathered him into my arms for a kiss. “We don’t need your hair all over everything.”

  After releasing him onto the ground, I handed Grammie the smaller box then grabbed the other, along with my tote and handbag. Inside, we set the boxes on the living room carpet. “All this came from Ted’s aunt’s hope chest.” Just saying that made my throat close with emotion. “Her fiancé died in World War II.” I set the sheets and pillowcases in sets along the couch back.

  “Oh, that’s tragic.” Grammie gently touched the appliqué on a pillowcase. “She did incredible work.”

  “Didn’t she?” I arranged the kitchen linens for her to see. “But this here is the pièce de résistance.” I draped the quilt over an armchair.

  Grammie’s voice held awe as she examined the quilt. “All hand-stitched.”

  “I’m not selling it,” I said. “I’m saving it for a wedding gift. It’s too special to let it go to strangers.”

  “Jake finally proposed?” Grammie guessed, her eyes twinkling. “He’s never going to do better.”