The mayor was saying, “I did form . . . an impression of someone.”
“A specific someone?”
“Yes.”
“Someone with a name?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
He seemed strangely embarrassed. “Edgar Allan Poe. Have I lost my senses?”
Mother sighed. “Not necessarily. After all, he’s very much on everyone’s mind.”
Pastor Creed offered, “Maybe it was someone in a Poe costume . . . like yours, Sheriff.”
“Perhaps,” Mother conceded, glancing at me.
We were having the same thought, I felt sure. Was some off-the-wall killer dressing up like the festival’s honored subject and re-creating the long-dead author’s fictional homicides?
The mayor, blinking, getting his bearings finally, said, “I should call my wife. I really should. Caroline must be terribly worried.”
This had occurred to me the moment we’d found him, but I knew Mother would want to question the man (no matter his condition) before his wife arrived in hysterics to spirit him understandably away.
And, perhaps five minutes later—in response to the call her husband made on the phone that had led to his rescue—his wife burst into the church and flew down the aisle to wrap her arms around her husband, who had risen to meet her, Mother scooting out of their way.
When Mrs. Hatcher finally unwound herself, her damp eyes went to Mother, then Creed, then me, and back to Mother. “Who would do such a thing?” Her husband had filled her in on the phone. “Everyone in Antiqua loves Myron!”
“Apparently not everyone,” Mother said.
“I don’t understand,” Caroline said crossly. “First Morella is found dead, now someone tries to kill my husband—and nearly succeeded!”
Creed was nodding. “And might well have if Sheriff Borne hadn’t thought to try calling his cell phone here in the church.”
Mother explained how triangulation had led us here.
She went on, “I have come to the conclusion that someone is trying—in the most despicable and diabolical fashion—to disrupt this festival. But for what purpose I cannot say.” She paused. “Therefore I must insist that it be shut down, toot sweet.”
“I agree,” Pastor Creed said.
I felt the same, but a part of me was wondering if Mother would be making this suggestion if she hadn’t already given her performance of “The Raven.”
“No!” the mayor protested, eyes popping as if he were Peter Lorre. “Then the fiend who’s doing these evil things will win!”
Mother shook her head somberly and placed a gentle hand on the mayor’s shoulder. “I can’t risk another attempt on some other victim’s life.”
Myron gave her a narrow-eyed, rather shrewd look. “But you can risk not catching this person? Is that really your best option? And if we cancel the festival, the murderer will leave Antiqua, along with everyone else. He . . . or she . . . will be in the wind.”
Mother was frowning thoughtfully. “You’re assuming the ‘he or she’ is a stranger, not someone in town?”
“Sheriff, I know everyone in Antiqua. I suppose it’s possible that a local is responsible. But based upon the nature of these crimes, doesn’t it appear that a psychopath has been drawn here, responding in some sick way to the dark side of Poe’s work? If you close down this event, it seems likely the murderer will be beyond your grasp.”
Mother looked at me. I was oddly complimented that she wanted my opinion.
I gave it to her with a shrug. “The mayor’s point is valid. Maybe Morella’s necklace and Mr. Hatcher’s car key fob were meant to be found, to announce a Poe-style crime. Not closing down the fest might be worth the risk.”
I had a reason for going out on this precarious limb, which I intended to act upon very soon.
Caroline was saying, “I don’t give a damn about this stupid festival—I’m taking Myron to the hospital right now!”
Hatcher took his wife firmly yet lovingly by her shoulders, saying in earnest, “Please do this my way, dear, and I promise you I’ll go for a complete checkup on Monday.”
She was near tears. “You could have some bad effects from the blow in the meantime. . . .”
“If so, we’ll go straight to the hospital. Immediately.”
She was weakening. “Well . . . in that case . . . whatever you and the sheriff decide, I’ll support.”
The mayor addressed Mother. “Sheriff, what if I go home, clean up, then come back for the announcement of the final cryptogram at four o’clock? Wouldn’t you imagine the killer might be shocked to see me, alive and well, and react in some way?”
Mother was nodding slowly. It was an idea so crazy she might have come up with it herself. She said, “Could be we’d flush him out.”
“Or her,” I said.
Caroline’s eyes were wide and her tone was bitter. “So now Myron will be used as bait? Do you have any other bright ideas, Sheriff Borne?”
Mother replied reassuringly, “I’ll be right at His Honor’s side, my dear. As will the other council members, and you as well, if you wish.”
“I still don’t like it,” Caroline said, if not quite as forcefully. “I don’t like it at all.”
As the discussion continued, I slipped outside to use my cell.
“Tony,” I asked Serenity’s chief of police, “are you still coming tonight?”
“Around seven. Why? That all right?”
“Could you make it earlier? I’m afraid Mother’s in over her head. There are problems here.”
“Well, maybe she needs to get a taste of what she’s in for. She’s going to have to either be up to the job or step down.”
That sounds crueler than it was delivered. Tony was thinking of what was best for both Borne girls.
So I said, “What if I said I was in over my head too?”
“Tell me,” he said.
I filled him in on the killer’s latest Poe tribute.
“What time,” he asked, “do you want me there?”
* * *
After Caroline Hatcher had piled her husband into their burgundy Buick and headed home, Mother once again called in the Serenity PD forensics, to go over the mayor’s car and the area around it, and the church basement, warning them that the latter location had been trampled and otherwise disturbed in the rescue of the attempted murder victim.
Mother did not inform the FBI about Myron’s abduction, deeming it unnecessary now that the mayor had been found. This seemed perfectly reasonable to me, for a change, but proved a decision (among others) for which she would later pay a price; for now, Sheriff Vivian Borne acted as she saw fit, with her sort-of-deputy’s blessing.
While Mother hung around at the church, waiting for forensics, I went back to the Pullman to see what revenge a neglected Sushi might have wrought upon her mistress.
That she did not greet me at the door was not a good sign. I found her curled up on the couch, refusing to acknowledge me with even a glance. So of course I explained why I had been away for so long, apologizing profusely, as if she could understand (and suspecting that she could).
I had been living out of my suitcase, which was open on the floor next to the couch; on top of my clothes was a perfect little cigar-shaped prezzie to let me know just how unhappy she was.
But I knew of a way to get back in her good graces.
I dispensed with the cigar, went over and picked up the little rascal, then headed with her back out into the sultry heat. A few minutes later, we were entering the air-conditioned bakery, its proprietor behind the glass counter wearing his usual confectionary-stained white apron.
“Hi, George,” I said, as we were now on a first-name basis.
“Hello, Brandy . . . Sushi,” he said with a smile. “Another scorcher, huh?”
“Not hot enough to keep us away from some more doggie cookies.”
“How many?”
I gauged what would get me out of the doghouse. “Four please.” Studying wh
at remained of his stock, I added, “And a bear claw for me.”
Sushi gave my cheek a little lick, signaling her snit was over.
“But,” I told her firmly, “you’re not getting any of mine.”
This she seemed not to understand. Which means she did.
George prepared two small, white sacks and set them by the cash register. He was about to calculate the price, when he paused to ask, “Any progress on finding Morella’s killer?”
This startled me. I’d hoped the supposition that the young woman’s passing was due to an overdose would have held sway a little longer. But, then, this was a small town.
Not bothering to deny it, I said, “Sorry, if I knew anything—which I don’t—I really couldn’t tell you.”
Not snippily or anything.
“Yes, of course,” he said with a nod. “It’s just that, well . . . I did notice something on the afternoon of the day she disappeared. It might not mean anything.”
“You noticed something?” I prompted.
He nodded again. “I’d been taking a smoke break in the alley and was about to go back inside. That’s when I saw Morella coming out the back of the coffee shop and walking over to your mother’s car . . . the sheriff’s SUV? I could see it parked in front of city hall. Anyway, she stuck something under the wiper. Like maybe a note or a notice about an event or something. Then she went back in to work. Did you get it?”
“Get it?”
“Whatever she put on the windshield.”
“Oh, yeah. It was an Edgar Allan Poe quote.”
“Oh,” George said disappointedly.
“Appreciate the info, though. How much do I owe you?”
When he handed me back my change, both the bills and the change included doggie cookie crumbs.
Walking toward the coffee shop, hands laden with Sushi and sacks, I pondered Morella’s motive behind the mysterious quote: “Believe nothing you hear and only half of what you see.”
Was it a warning?
If so, about what or who? Or had the note been intended to trigger an investigation, should something happen to her? Then, if nothing did happen, the missive would be forgotten, shrugged off as more Poe nonsense in the midst of the festival.
One thing seemed certain, though, or anyway probable.
Morella Crafton had been involved in something she shouldn’t have been.
* * *
Midafternoon, the coffee shop was hopping, visitors and locals alike sipping cool drinks in air-conditioned comfort while waiting for the release of the final crypto-clue.
I spotted Amy and Jessica—those two gossips from yesterday—sitting across from each other at a table for four. So I went over and asked if Sushi and I might join them. As I’d expected—since gossips are always eager for new news sources—I received an eager, positive response.
I settled in with Sushi on my lap, Amy on my left, Jessica on my right.
The two women were sharing another cheesecake. Both had bottled water, as if the noncalories of the latter would offset the off-the-charts calories of the former.
Willow wandered over and took my order of an iced tea, no sugar. (Yes, yes, I know—the noncalories of the sugarless iced tea would not offset my bear claw, either.)
Amy, the younger of the nosy pair, her long blond hair in a low-hanging ponytail today, said pleasantly, “So you’re the sheriff’s daughter!”
“That’s right. I’m her pro bono deputy . . . which means I have zero authority to go along with the lack of pay.”
They laughed politely at that. Meanwhile, single-minded Sushi barked for a cookie, and I dug into her sack.
Amy continued, overly friendly. “My, that must be interesting! What’s it like?”
“Unpredictable. Mother can be what polite people might call eccentric. What people who aren’t polite call her is . . . not polite.”
Jessica, her brunette hair also pulled back, asked, “So, your main duty is driving her around?”
“I don’t always chauffeur her.” No need to go into Mother’s driving history. Maybe they knew she’d driven to the casino and I’d be ratting her out if I mentioned her revoked driver’s license status. This pair seemed as if they knew about most everything in Antiqua.
Willow brought my tea, and I got out the bear claw.
Amy, dropping any chummy pretext, asked, “Why are the details of the Crafton girl’s death being kept from the public?”
I took a big bite of the pastry, chewed, swallowed. “Because of further forensic evaluations.”
Jessica leaned forward. “But she was murdered? That’s what local gossips are saying.”
She would know. Her and Amy.
“Yes,” I said, making them work for it. Anyway, the bear claw was delicious.
Amy asked, “Does your mother know who is responsible?”
“Not yet.” I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “But you nice gals might be able to assist.”
Gossips love to help, especially when it provides rumors an extended life.
I asked, “What do you know about the mayor?”
“Well,” Amy said, her eyes going big momentarily, “I know . . . or anyway, I heard . . . he didn’t show up for dispensing the second clue today.”
“What else?” I asked.
Jessica shrugged. “He likes to gamble.”
I frowned. “Would you call him a gambling addict?”
“Not really,” the older woman said. “But he’s in over his head in debt, they say.”
“From the gambling?”
Amy put in, “More from that run-down mansion of theirs, I’d wager.”
“Why’d the Hatchers buy it,” I asked, “if they couldn’t afford the upkeep?”
The younger woman made a facial shrug. “Probably for appearance’s sake. It used to belong to a wealthy landowner around here. And I think the mayor fancies himself in that class.”
I took a sip of the cold tea. “What about the Hatcher’s next-door shop neighbor, Paula Baxter?”
Jessica took the ball. “She’s a strange one. Not unfriendly, but, well . . . aloof?”
Was she asking me? These uptalkers!
She was saying, “I tried to find out about her when she ran for city council . . . but she’s not on social media. Only showed up on the Antiqua web page.”
“An attractive woman,” I said. “Is she dating anyone?”
Amy’s shrug seemed oddly judgmental. “I never saw her with anyone of either sex.”
Sushi barked for another cookie, and I wasn’t about to argue. I didn’t have enough clothes with me to risk another cigar-shaped present in my suitcase.
I asked, “What about Rick? He’s kind of a hunk. What’s his story?”
“Amy has a crush on him,” Jessica said with a little laugh.
“But he’s broke,” Amy added, wrinkling her nose, indicating Rick was not worthy hookup material.
“Local boy?” I asked.
“That’s right,” Jessica said. “He inherited the antiques mall from his father, who wasn’t much of a businessman either.”
“Who has Rick dated?”
Amy lowered her voice. “There’s been some talk about him and Lottie.”
“And Mike,” Jessica added, openly catty.
Even though I’d overheard this from them before, I didn’t mind covering it again.
I asked, “You mean the shop owner who killed himself? After he sold the valuable Poe portrait?”
The older woman nodded. “But me? Personally?” She leaned forward and whispered, not really all that softly, “I’m not so sure it was suicide.”
Amy took umbrage with her friend. “You shouldn’t say such things, Jess. The authorities called it that.”
The two were looking at each other now.
“Amy, you have to admit it was strange.”
“Well, strange is one thing. Calling it something other than suicide is . . . well, that’s strange too.”
I asked, “Didn’t he shoot himself? Tha
t’s terribly sad, but nothing strange about it, really. Right?”
“He shot himself, yes,” Jessica said, nodding. “In his garden, beneath a tree. But the strange part was what was hanging from a limb above him.”
“What was that?”
“That,” she said, “was the family cat.”
The name of Poe’s famous black cat leapt into my mind, claws out. “Pluto?” I asked breathlessly.
She reared back and looked at me funny. “No. Bing Clawsby.”
“Was Bing Clawsby a black cat?”
The frown deepened. “Yellow.”
Huh.
If Mr. Everhart’s death had been an earlier Poe-style murder, the killer certainly did take some liberties with “The Black Cat.”
Jessica was saying, in a somewhat hushed manner, “Anyway, if I had a devious mind, I might think Lottie killed Mike.”
Amy, sotto voce, said, “Or Rick. Either Rick or Lottie, or the two of them together, if they’d been having their own affair.”
“Lottie,” I said, my mind spinning somewhat, “doesn’t seem like the type who could kill a cat.” Much less a person.
Jessica snorted. “Don’t let Lottie fool you. She can be vicious. I’ve seen that firsthand at the nail shop.”
But she didn’t elaborate.
“Speaking of affairs,” I said, “what about Wally Thorp and Morella? Could they have been having one? I mean, they would’ve made an odd couple, all right, but . . .”
The women’s eyes met.
Then Jessica said to her friend, “Go ahead. It’s the right thing to do.”
Amy shifted in her chair. “I don’t know exactly what was going on between them. I think Wally was definitely infatuated with her . . . but the feeling clearly wasn’t reciprocated.”
I asked, “Can you explain that?”
Amy nodded slowly. “Well, the infatuation part is based on him going out of his way not only to give the girl a place to live but financial support, too. I saw him slip her a wad of cash one day in the coffee shop!” She paused. “The not reciprocated part is because of the way she treated Wally—which is to say, like dirt. But she took his money, all right.”
Jessica said, “And once I saw them arguing, out back of the coffee shop.”
I asked, “About . . . ?”
She shook her head. “I was too far away to hear what it was about.”
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