The Devil's Puzzle

by Clare O'Donohue

  “At least once.” He chuckled and headed up the steps and into the building.

  CHAPTER 43

  I was next door to the police station, so I stopped in and told Greg, the detective in charge, about the button I’d found with Molly’s fake nail still stuck under the pin. He put it in an evidence bag and promised to tell Jesse once he returned from a meeting with Glad about security during the anniversary celebration.

  As I walked out of the station, I had a weird feeling. For the third time in weeks, I felt as if I were being watched. I looked around. It was a bright, warm day and there were people on the streets, but no one was paying any particular attention to me.

  I took a deep breath and made a few careful steps toward Main Street. As I did, I kept an eye on everyone around me—even on the buildings that I passed. I couldn’t see anyone that should concern me. But I could feel it.

  I walked slowly down Main Street, toward the river. If someone was following me, it would be harder to do once there were open spaces and fewer people. I headed toward the park, keeping myself near the edge of the river, looking around as discreetly as possible. No one was there, yet I felt as if I weren’t alone.

  Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I turned around, hoping to catch whoever was behind me. But there was no one. There was a patch of trees behind me. I could have searched them, but suddenly the idea scared me.

  Keeping myself from breaking out into a run and reminding myself that this was broad daylight, I turned back toward the town center and kept walking until I reached Jitters.

  “Anyone behind me?” I asked Carrie when I walked inside.

  “Behind you how?”

  “Watching me?”

  She looked behind me. “No. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing, I guess. I’m just chasing my tail. I was talking—”

  “Oh my God.” Carrie was standing behind the counter pouring a cup of coffee, but she was focused on whatever was going on outside her window.

  I turned. Ed was standing outside Someday Quilts talking, and laughing, with Eleanor.

  “I guess Glad was lying,” Carrie said.

  “I guess so.”

  We watched as Ed and Eleanor hugged, and then he walked down the street.

  “I’ll pay for this later,” I said as I grabbed my coffee and ran off after him.

  I wasn’t sure if I was following him or trying to catch up, so I kept a normal pace. Ed walked briskly, like a man with an appointment to keep. I’ve seen dozens of movies where people trail a suspect. They follow closely, and duck into doorways or between buildings when they’re about to be caught. Unfortunately for me, all the doorways along Main Street are flat to the sidewalk, and there are no spaces between the buildings, so I tried to look casual, and kept walking. I was feeling pretty good about my ability to follow someone undetected, when Ed turned around to face me, just as he reached the theater.

  “Hi there, Nell,” he said. “Lovely day.”

  “It is. Nice day for a movie, I suppose.”

  “Today? No. Too much sunshine and summer breezes for sitting in air-conditioning. No one will come for a movie today. Might as well keep the place closed.”

  “I wanted to ask if I could take you up on your offer to display some quilts in your theater. It has so much space in the lobby, and it would be great to keep the antique quilts indoors.”

  “Absolutely. I’m happy to help.” He paused. “Is that it?”

  “Yeah. Were you out taking a walk?”

  “Yes. Just over at the park. I love to watch the kids on the swings, don’t you? But I have to admit, I’m always very tempted to jump on one myself. I used to love that as a kid. The freedom I had when I would swing high, as if I were soaring into outer space. You know what I mean?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  His whole attitude was light and playful, like a kid on Christmas morning. As he spoke, he rocked a little, and when he opened the door to the theater, he hummed. If I hadn’t known Ed had just been talking to my grandmother, I’d say he was a man in love.

  After he told me about the playground, he smiled, turned his back on me, and headed into the theater. I stood there long enough to hear him bolt the door.

  “So Ed lied to you,” Natalie said when I told her about the conversation.

  “And for the second time. Eleanor and Ed were laughing and hugging not five minutes before.”

  We were at the back of Someday Quilts, whispering and hoping that the sound of the longarm machine would keep Eleanor, who was at the front of the shop, from overhearing.

  “They weren’t just hugging outside,” Natalie told me. “They were talking for about twenty minutes.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know. Ed came in looking for her, so I sent him back to her office. She closed the door. I couldn’t hear a thing.”

  That deflated me. That, and the feeling that I had to rely on eavesdropping to find out about my own grandmother. Eleanor was hiding something from me. It wasn’t that she couldn’t have parts of her life that were none of my business. Of course she could. But she had never been anything other than direct and open—until now.

  “I did hear one thing,” Natalie said. “I don’t know what it meant.”

  “What?”

  “When they were walking out of her office, I heard Ed say that she had done exactly as Eleanor had instructed.”

  “She who?”

  “He didn’t say. Eleanor told him to be sure that she kept it up. She said to do a little bit every day, nothing too big, just enough to keep the momentum going.”

  “A little bit of what, I wonder?”

  “I don’t know, but as they were walking out the door, Eleanor said that Glad was next.”

  “Glad was next for what?”

  Natalie threw her hands up. “Nell, stop asking me questions I don’t know the answers to. I told you everything I overheard. After Eleanor said that about Glad, she and Ed went outside the shop.”

  “That’s when I saw them hugging and laughing,” I said.

  “What could they be doing?”

  “Whatever they’re doing, they certainly don’t hate each other.”

  “Then why would Glad say they did?” Natalie asked. “And why is she next?”

  “It’s not so much why that concerns me,” I said. “It’s what. What will happen to Glad?”

  “I don’t know, but whatever happens, it will be because Eleanor told Ed to make it happen.”

  CHAPTER 44

  The answer to what would happen to Glad came just a few days later. I was in the middle of a great dream, getting my first good night’s sleep in days, when my cell phone rang at 6:25 AM.

  “Is somebody dead?” I asked as I answered the phone. “Because it’s too early to call for any other reason.”

  “Nice way to say good morning,” Jesse answered back.

  “Good morning.”

  “Can you meet me at the park?”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  I hung up and got dressed as quickly as possible. Since Barney was whimpering by the door, I grabbed his leash and took him with me. It was a beautiful morning, and I was enjoying the walk enough to let Barney sniff at his leisure, a delay I hoped Jesse would understand. June was midway through and the flowers were in bloom. It would have been the perfect day for a romantic picnic breakfast, but I knew by the tone in Jesse’s voice that romance was not on his mind.

  When Barney and I arrived at the park, Jesse and several of his officers were huddled around the area where the John Archer statue was supposed to be erected in a few weeks.

  “What happened?” I asked as I arrived.

  “Look for yourself,” Jesse said, and pointed toward the base for the statue.

  A poster-size photo of Glad with a knife stuck through it was secured to the base. The word killer was spray-painted in red across the photo.

  “That’s bizarre,” I said. “Who would do that?”

&nbs
p; “The town vandal,” Jesse offered.

  “It seems fairly elaborate, doesn’t it? I mean, the person would have to get a photo, get it blown up . . .”

  “A service unfortunately not available in our little town,” Jesse said, “so it’s going to be fun to try to track down where it was done.”

  “And this is different from the other things. This is personal.”

  “So was hitting Molly over the head,” Jesse reminded me.

  “Assuming it’s the same person.”

  “I hope it is, Nell. Otherwise we have at least two people running around town. One hurting property and one hurting people.”

  Jesse stepped back as one of his detectives took photos of the scene. “You haven’t heard of any threats against Glad, have you?” he asked.

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “I’ve been close to killing her a few times myself.”

  He rested his hand on my waist, a simple action that felt so reassuring. “Molly gets out of the hospital this afternoon, so that’s something. Except I’m not comfortable letting her stay on the hill.”

  “On the hill” was the town expression for an old colonial-era home that was the one bed-and-breakfast we had. It was a small place on the edge of town, only a block from Mary Shipman’s home.

  “I can ask Eleanor,” I said, reluctantly. We often had people staying at my grandmother’s large house, but they generally didn’t suspect her of killing their relatives.

  “If you could,” he said. “And if you have any theories about this . . .”

  “I don’t.”

  I debated briefly about whether to tell him of the conversation between Ed and Eleanor that Natalie had overheard. I felt that by telling him I would be betraying Eleanor, though not telling Jesse also felt like a betrayal of sorts. I decided that I would delay sharing the information until I’d had a chance to speak with Eleanor.

  I left Jesse and the other officers and walked to Someday to drop Barney off at the shop when Eleanor came out into the street, her face red and angry.

  “There are people at the house,” she said. “I got a call from the neighbors. There are people walking all over the backyard and jumping into the hole.”

  “I’ll go there and stop it.”

  “Take him with you, as protection,” she said, pointing to our nearly deaf, slightly addled dog.

  “I’ll take him, but I don’t think I’ll need the help. It’s just the mayor,” I said. “I forgot that he asked me to ask you for permission to take photos of the backyard.”

  “I would have said no if you had asked me.”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  “Well, now go tell those people trampling on my property,” she said. “Imagine, exploiting poor Winston for tourism. What is happening to people?”

  “I don’t know. It’s getting crazy. Jesse just showed me something in the park. Someone had put a knife through a photo of Glad and spray-painted the word killer on it,” I said.

  I knew my grandmother well enough to know the shocked look on her face was genuine—at least, I hoped I knew her well enough. After reassuring her that I would put a stop to whatever was going on at the house, I left her at the shop and ran home.

  As I passed the movie theater, I saw a woman walk inside. Though I couldn’t see her face, I could make out a distinctive silver bracelet dangling from her arm—it was the same one Mary Shipman had worn the day I went to her house.

  When I arrived at the house, I saw two cars parked in the driveway. I recognized the mayor’s, but the other car was new to me. I ran to the back, and just as had been reported by the neighbors, there were three men milling about: the mayor, a man who was talking to him, and a photographer taking photos of everything from the rose garden to the back of the house.

  “This is private property,” I shouted. “And none of you have permission to be here.”

  “I told you to ask Eleanor if it was okay,” Larry said.

  “And she said no,” I told him. “And I say no. This was a man’s grave, Mayor, and the site of an open murder investigation. This isn’t a tourist attraction.”

  As I spoke, the photographer snapped a photo of me.

  “I’ll call Jesse and have all of you arrested for trespassing if you take one more photo or stay on this property one more minute.”

  “Now, Nell, don’t upset yourself,” the mayor said. “This is news. Big news. A leading citizen of Archers Rest spent more than thirty years buried in the backyard of one of our most beautiful and historical homes. Don’t you think people will want to read about that in the city papers?”

  “Don’t care.”

  He turned to the two men with him. “Nell Fitzgerald is our town’s favorite amateur sleuth. She and the police chief often collaborate on investigations, among other things.” He chuckled. “Perhaps you would like to be interviewed. Give your take on the story. Everyone likes a little publicity.”

  “You want publicity, Mayor? Then maybe I should talk with these men about the library, the school, the pentagram at the church, Molly O’Brien, and what’s happening at the park right now. You want that kind of publicity?”

  The mayor pursed his lips. “I think we have enough for now, gentlemen. Why don’t we take some photos of our beautiful Main Street?”

  The men walked ahead, but the mayor stayed behind and whispered to me, “What’s happening in the park?”

  “Someone stabbed a photo of Glad,” I said.

  “I don’t understand why someone would do that.”

  “Neither do I,” I admitted. “But I have a feeling it’s not the last thing that’s going to happen before your big celebration gets under way.”

  CHAPTER 45

  It took a few more minutes with the photographer frantically taking pictures before I could get them off the property. It was just a garden, and just a hole in the ground, but it was such an invasion of Eleanor’s privacy, and of Winston’s.

  I sat on the grass near the torn-up rose garden and looked at the overgrown weeds, the black dirt, and the empty space that for so many years had held Winston’s body. Three hundred and fifty years ago, John Archer had felt driven to leave New York because of rumors about him, and now Mary Shipman seemed to hide herself away because people thought her odd. Winston hadn’t been a likeable man, at least to the people of Archers Rest, but had he been so unlikable that he deserved to die? They were all people, it seemed to me, who were honest about who they were—and paid a price for it. So far the only price I paid for my reputation was a little teasing from the folks in town, but maybe it was better to hide who I was and just fit in. It certainly would be safer.

  I decided to head back to the quilt shop and an afternoon of sewing to clear my head, but five minutes after I’d left the house, I got a call from Jesse that meant I had to turn around. Molly had been released from the hospital, and he was bringing her over. I called Eleanor at the shop and got her approval for the scheme, quickly changed the sheets on my bed, and threw some of my clothes on the sofa bed in the sewing room. Much as I didn’t care for Molly’s suspicions, I couldn’t let someone just out of the hospital sleep on the lumpy mattress in that couch. Then I went downstairs and put the kettle on.

  When she arrived, with a bandage on her head, Molly, Jesse, and I sat down for tea and some Oreos, the only cookies I could find in the house.

  “My grandmother will be appalled I didn’t serve you anything homemade,” I said.

  “I don’t want anyone to go to any trouble. But I do feel a bit safer here than I would at the hotel.”

  “If someone is trying to hurt you,” Jesse said, “then that’s where they’ll look for you. But we’ll keep your being here under wraps. Eleanor and Nell won’t tell anyone.”

  He looked toward me, and I nodded.

  Molly got up and walked to the back window. “Is that where?” She pointed toward the dug-up rose garden.

  “Yes,” I said. “It was really beautiful when Grace lived here. There were bushes of huge ros
es, yellow and pink and a really pretty orange. It’s small comfort, but it was a quiet place for him to rest.”

  “I suppose. But seeing it just makes me want to know more. I feel like I owe him that much.”

  Jesse stood up. “Molly, what you can do for him is rest and recover. You got a bad blow to the head. You’re just lucky that all it did was cut your skin and give you a mild concussion. It could have been much, much worse.”

  “It could have been fatal,” she said, not taking her eyes off the rose garden.

  “And to make sure that there isn’t a follow-up, I need you to stay here. Out of sight and out of trouble,” he said.

  She nodded. “I have no intention of getting myself killed.”

  Jesse looked to me. “Do you want to walk me out, Nell?”

  “Okay. There’s more tea, Molly,” I said, but she was lost in thought.

  Jesse and I were at the front door before he stopped me. “If you were her, would you stay here and rest or would you be more determined to find out what happened?”

  I bit the inside of my cheek. “I don’t think you want to know my answer.”

  “I was afraid of that. I’m going to send one of my guys over to watch the house. Not so much to keep anyone from getting in, but to keep her from going out.”

  “I assume I can still go out,” I said.

  He brushed a stray hair from my cheek. “I know better than to try to stop you.”

  After Molly’s police protection arrived, I went back to the shop and collected the reproduction and antique quilts that some of our regulars were already dropping off. The quilt show was more than two weeks off and I already had sixteen quilts ready to hang.

  It was as comforting as ever to spend my time looking at quilts. As much as I wanted to worry and stress about a growing collection of questions, I soon got lost in the fabric choices and the beautiful stitching.

  They were an amazing group of quilts. The antique ones dated back to the Depression, and I had promises for quilts from just after the Civil War. But I also had quilts made in the 1970s, 80s, and even ones made less than ten years before. Even though most of the older quilts didn’t have labels to identify who had made them, each quilt provided insight into its maker—a collection of choices in color and pattern that revealed the true passions of the woman behind it.