(Mother to Brandy: What question, dear?)
(Brandy to Mother: That wasn’t Poe worthy. Call it a Poe attempt.)
But before I press on, I must address an issue having to do with my campaign for sheriff. I had received quite a few donations from our overseas Trash ’n’ Treasures readers, supporting my bid, and because there are stipulations (unknown by me at the time) regarding a political campaign accepting foreign money, I feel it necessary to return those donations, to maintain transparency and stay aboveboard. (There’s always the possibility that Russia may have routed me rubles through fictitious names, hoping to tip the scales in my favor—but rectifying this is beyond even Vivian Borne. Spasiba, though!)
So, if you live outside the good old US of A and have sent me money, expect reimbursement soon. After currency exchange, there is $37.87 that must, in all good conscience, be returned.
I also need some help with a small cardboard box I received containing stotinki coins. I didn’t even know our books were available in Bulgaria! Anyhoo, the return address was missing, so I don’t know who sent it. If you are the Bulgarian party (person, not political group), would you please drop me a note or e-mail, or contact our publisher, and identify how many stotinki were in the box so that I know it is really you?
Thank you in advance.
And now back to our story.
After leaving Brandy and Sushi behind in our Pullman car, I decided to trek over to the Coffee Club and speak to Willow, the waitress Brandy mentioned.
Approaching six p.m., the sidewalks were not nearly as crowded as before. The shops were closed for the day, folks either at the Antique Diner having dinner or at the Happy Hour bar drinking, else back at their lodgings or heading home to nearby towns.
As I stepped inside, a young woman sweeping the floor said, without looking up, “We’re closing.”
Then she noticed my uniform with badge, and her disposition improved somewhat. “Oh . . . you must the new sheriff. I guess I can still get you something—if it’s not too complicated.”
I shut the door behind me and approached the waitress, who was almost startlingly thin—a wisp of a willow, one might say. She wore a sleeveless white shirt and black jeans, her long brown hair in a ponytail. Hiding behind the heavy makeup was a pretty face.
“You’re Willow?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“I’d like a word—or two.”
Her eyes widened. “What about?”
“Your late colleague, dear.”
“My what?”
“Morella.”
Sullen again, Willow leaned on the broom. “If you’re looking for her, I don’t know where she is, but she isn’t just late—she didn’t show at all! Tell her thanks a lot for sticking me with her shift, if you find her.”
“Oh, she’s been found,” I said.
Willow’s sculpted eyebrows rose. “What do you mean?”
“She’s quite dead, dear.”
I watched carefully for the young woman’s reaction.
Willow took a few steps back, bumped into a chair, then dropped into it. The waitress stared at the floor, then looked up at me. “God. What . . . what happened?”
“Morella was discovered this afternoon in the mausoleum at the cemetery. Cause of death has yet to be determined, but others have suggested it might be the result of a drug overdose.”
That was accurate, wasn’t it? Others had suggested that.
Willow’s ponytail switched back and forth, like a horse tail batting away flies. “No way. She didn’t do drugs!”
“You’re certain?” Even though I knew the late young woman had died from an overdose of blunt object, any information regarding her possible use of illegal substances might be helpful.
“I know she didn’t because . . . ah . . .” The young woman halted, eyes drifting to my five-pointed star badge.
I pulled a chair out from the table and sat. “Young lady, you may rest assured that I’m not interested in your various peccadilloes.”
“Pick a what?”
“Let’s call them . . . bad habits.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, then, the reason I know was because we got into it over that.”
“Over what?”
“Over what kind of . . . recreational ‘habits’ were okay and what weren’t. But that’s all I’m gonna say on that subject.”
“Understood,” I said with a nod. “Did she have a paramour?”
“A pair of what? You sure talk funny for a sheriff.”
“Did Morella have a boyfriend or lover?”
The waitress hesitated before answering. “No. Morella thought all the guys around here were losers. Not that she was wrong.”
“Did she ever mention going out with anyone? Dating at all? Perhaps it came up in the midst of girl talk.”
Willow waved a slender hand. “We didn’t talk about girls or guys. Never had those kind of talks—we weren’t close friends. All I know about her is, she showed up in Antiqua a couple years ago, got a job here, hated this town, and all she ever talked about was leaving it.”
“When did you last see Morella?”
Willow thought for a moment. “Thursday morning, I guess. Yeah. Thursday morning. I stopped in here to remind her she was working for me this weekend so I could go to the festival.”
“How did she seem?”
“Funny you should ask.”
“Funny, dear?”
Willow shrugged. “She looked happy, for a change.”
“Any idea why?”
A shrug. “Maybe she thought she finally found a way out of this town.”
And hadn’t she?
I asked, “Would you happen to know what Morella liked to do in her spare time?”
“Well . . . I know she went to the casino a lot—the Indian one? Now and then she said she won a little. Never talked about losing . . . but who does? It’s no wonder she could never save enough to get out of this place, throwing her paycheck away like that all the time.”
“I understand she lived in an apartment in town,” I said, already knowing the answer.
Willow nodded. “Over that junk shop. And she drove an old blue Toyota. But, really, that’s all I can tell you about her. I feel bad she’s gone, but we weren’t close, so . . . anyway. I have to finish cleaning up or I’ll get my butt in a sling.”
“Well, we can’t have that, dear. Sounds most uncomfortable. Thank you for your time.”
As I was heading toward the door, Willow called out, “Oh . . . Sheriff!”
I turned. “Yes?”
“Thursday morning? When I last saw Morella? Now that I think of it, she did say something . . . something kinda strange.”
“What would that be, dear?”
“Some weird thing about a book cover.”
“Could you be more specific? Exact words, Willow.”
The sculpted eyebrows knitted together. “Ah . . . I think it was, ‘Turns out you can judge a book by its cover.’”
“Interesting. Thank you. And might I offer a suggestion? If you were to smile more, your inner loveliness would shine through.”
“Huh?”
I left her to ponder that.
The sun hung low (for some reason, I’m craving Chinese food as I write this!) as I headed over to Junk ’n’ Stuff, housed in a rather decrepit two-story building at the end of Antiques Drive. A CLOSED sign drooped from a nail on the front door, so I walked around back, where a blue Toyota, sporting more than its share of dents, was parked next to a flight of wooden steps to the second floor.
I climbed to the door, plucked a pair of lock picks from my duty belt, and in two shakes of Sushi’s tail was inside. If you’re wondering, I had probable cause—Morella, the occupant (former occupant now), had been murdered, after all.
It was pitch black within, so I used my small flashlight to locate a lamp and turn it on. I found myself in a living room with a worn carpet, inexpensive secondhandish furniture, and an old tube television. Empty beer cans littered a coffee table, along
with an ashtray full of cigarettes butts.
The living room flowed into a small kitchen with low-end appliances, a sink full of dirty dishes, and a trash can containing pizza boxes and frozen food packaging.
A small hallway led to the only bedroom, where a suitcase, partially filled with feminine apparel, lay open on the unmade bed—apparently Morella had indeed been preparing to leave Antiqua.
I walked over to a scuffed-up four-drawer dresser, atop which a black purse sat, and proceeded to empty the bag’s contents: wallet with driver’s license, perhaps forty dollars in cash, and a bank debit card. I also found a single key for the car, but nothing that might fit the front door. Also M.I.A. was a cell phone, nor did I spot one lying around. I returned the items to the purse.
So.
Morella had left the apartment, taking along only her latch key and cell phone, then proceeded to the cemetery on foot.
A pile of papers on the floor drew my attention, and I picked them up, then found a spot on the bed to spread them out: paid bills, paycheck stubs, and statements from the local bank. Examining the latter—the bank still using photostats of checks and deposits—I noticed that Morella had been depositing two hundred dollars in cash every Friday, in addition to her paycheck.
Who or what had been supplementing her income? I very much doubted it was casino winnings.
My back was to the bedroom door when a voice boomed behind me: “What the hell are you doing?”
Reflexively, I twisted in that direction, doing my sacroiliac no favors.
“My job, Mr. Thorp.”
The junk shop proprietor sighed. “You could have asked me for a key,” he said tersely.
I stood, somewhat painfully. My first in-the-line-of-duty injury, or ache anyway. “How long has Morella been your tenant?”
He shrugged, irritated. “A couple years. I overheard her at the coffee shop saying she was looking for an apartment.”
“And this happened to be vacant?”
“Not exactly,” he said.
I waited for an explanation.
“This floor was just storage.”
“Ah.”
Wally gestured with an open, stubby-finger hand. “Morella was living in her car, and, well . . . I felt sorry for the kid.”
I said, “A considerable outlay of cash, I’d say, to fix this place up for a stranger.”
He bristled. “Business has been tough. I thought a rental could bring in income. And I had plenty of stuff downstairs I could furnish it with.”
I asked, “And has it brought in more income? Did Morella pay her rent on time?”
A long pause. Another shrug. “She’d fallen behind.”
“A bit behind, or . . . ?”
He swallowed thickly. “Four months.”
I approached the man, recalling the rumor about his love interest on the side. “You’re a very considerate landlord, Mr. Thorp. Did you offer to work things out with her in some other way? Barter system, perhaps?”
Wally’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I like what you’re implying.”
It was my turn to shrug, which I did with dramatic flair. “I’m merely asking if perhaps Morella ever worked for you in your shop, to help pay off the debt. Sweeping up, that kind of thing.”
“Oh. No. Stella—the wife? She comes in and does that every so often.”
The wife. Such a charming way to put it.
“Earlier, at the church,” I said, “you appeared upset about the young woman’s demise . . . more so than the other council members, I would say.”
“She was my tenant,” he said, defensively.
I nodded. “Meaning a loss of income . . . at least, had she ever paid her back rent. Or perhaps you two had grown close—in a platonic way, of course—what with her living above the shop.”
His chin tightened and crinkled. “Like I told you at the church, Mrs. Borne, that kid and me, we didn’t have much contact.”
“Did you ever notice your tenant entertaining any visitors? Girlfriends, perhaps? Boyfriends?”
He shook his head, rather more than the question might require. “No. After I close the store, I go home.”
We had reached the point where Wally had given me all he was likely to.
So I said, “Well, thank you, Mr. Thorp. I’ll make sure the apartment is locked up good and tight when I leave.”
He hesitated a moment, then left the bedroom. I listened for the front door to open, and close. I gathered up the papers, took the purse, and left.
On Heirloom Drive, a side street, was a small Wells Fargo branch bank in a newish one-story red-brick building, not yet closed for the day. I entered the tiny lobby with its handful of comfy chairs, table with magazines, and side table with coffeemaker, pot empty. Straight ahead was a teller stationed behind a wooden partition.
I proceeded to the customer window. The young woman, barely out of her teens, frowned at my uniform and said, “Ah . . . we’re about to close.” The child was anxious, I would imagine, to escape her cage and get on with her young life. Particularly on a Friday.
“Tell your manager,” I said pleasantly, “that Sheriff Borne needs a word.”
She blinked, processing that. “Oh. Okay.”
The teller disappeared through a doorway behind her, then came back to her post. “Ms. Gooch will be with you in a moment.”
Soon a thirtyish, plump, rather plain-looking woman in a pink pantsuit came around the station and approached me. An unkind commentator might call her dumpy.
“Gladys Gooch,” she said. “How might I help you, Sheriff?”
“Official business,” I replied. “Could we talk in your office?”
“Certainly.”
I followed Ms. Gooch around the partition and through the door into a small office.
Absorbing the room instantly, looking for leverage, I found it among the paperwork on her desk: a folded-open romance novel.
Gladys lowered herself into a swivel chair; I took the one for the client, which didn’t swivel (the chair, not yours truly).
“I need information about Morella Crafton’s checking account,” I said with authority and a smile. “Specifically, I’d like the source of the two hundred dollars in cash she deposited every week.”
The manager shook her head. “That would be impossible to know, since it was cash.”
I asked, “Can’t you cross-check it with withdrawals for that amount from other accounts?”
“Not really,” she said, adding, “and even if I could, I wouldn’t attempt such a search without a court order.”
“Say that again,” I said, putting some excitement into my voice.
“Huh?”
“About the court order!”
Gladys frowned, puzzled. “I wouldn’t attempt such a search without a court order.”
I put a hand to my bosom. “What a voice you have, my dear! Your annunciation, your projection. Have you ever trod the boards?”
“Trod on what boards?”
“The stage, dear! That’s an expression meaning that one has performed as an actor. In public.”
She smiled and some color came to her cheeks; it helped a little. “Oh. No. Well, a little, in high school. Just a tiny part.”
I sighed deeply. “What a loss for the world of dramaturgy.”
“You really think so?”
Sitting forward, I asked, “Are you aware of the semiprofessional productions we’ve presented at the Serenity Playhouse?”
Her eyes were wide. “I’ve heard they’re pretty good,” she admitted.
“Well, although I am not here this afternoon in that capacity, I am executive director of the Playhouse.”
I had a flash of inspiration (actually, I enacted a person who was experiencing a flash of inspiration).
“Ms. Gooch . . . how would you like to fill the lead role in The Voice of the Turtle?”
“The lead role is a . . . turtle?”
“No, dear!” I clasped my hands. “The role of Olive Lashbrooke,
a worldly girl who lives, lives, lives! Whose unquenchable passions take her from one love affair to the next.”
“Oh my.” Ms. Gooch’s eyes were quite wide now. “Do you really think I might have the . . . talent? To play her?”
“Why, you would be perfect.” I batted away an invisible fly (mime training). “You wouldn’t even have to audition. Your talent is palpable—it verily oozes from every pore.”
“It does? Wow.”
I sat back.
I waited.
Gladys sighed, sat forward. “Off the record?”
“Way off,” I said.
The banker said conspiratorially, “I can tell you this much . . . Miss Crafton could have deposited a lot more than two hundred dollars every week. She always had a wad of cash that . . . you know the old expression, a roll of bills that would choke a horse?”
“I do indeed.”
“Well, that’s the kind of roll she’d peel that money off of.”
“How much more than the two hundred she regularly deposited?”
The manager crinkled her nose. “Maybe triple that.”
And yet Morella was four months behind in her rent. Interesting.
I rose and bowed. “Thank you, Gladys. I’ll be in touch before we begin production in the fall.”
She stood and gushed. “I can’t believe it! Thank you. Could you send the script around?”
“You’re welcome, and I certainly could provide you with the play. I’ll see myself out.”
I did not enjoy deceiving the woman—beyond the fun of it, of course—but I needed to solve Morella’s murder by whatever means necessary. Besides, Gladys would probably forget all about the play.
(Brandy to Mother: So that’s how Gladys Gooch got that part! “Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive!” That’s Shakespeare.)
(Mother to Brandy: Actually, Sir Walter Scott, darling child. And don’t let’s get ahead of ourselves—that’s the next book.)
Night had fallen by the time I returned to the Pullman, its windows dark, Brandy apparently still slumbering. I fished a spare key to the Explorer from my duty belt, unlocked the vehicle, then slipped behind the wheel, placing the papers and purse on the seat next to me.
Carefully I backed out of the gravel drive, then (slowly at first) drove away. And, yes, I understand I am not allowed to drive as a civilian, but as a law enforcement professional, I have a right to commandeer a vehicle now and then. In an emergency. And in my book, “emergency” is a fluid term.
Antiques Ravin' Page 6