by Maia Chance
“Are you going to go?”
“Of course! The Naneda Lake Club dances are the best place to meet men around here. You should come too. It’s next month.”
“No thanks. And, um, you’re going to go to meet men? What about Solomon—you know, your date to the dance?”
“Well, he wouldn’t be able to dance.”
“So he’s a stepping-stone?”
“I wouldn’t step on the little dear. Bones would crunch.”
“Well, your romantic conquests aside, I saw the will. It’s bad news for us.”
Effie stopped on the sidewalk. “What do you mean?”
I glanced around. No one was within earshot except for a golden retriever tied to a bike rack. I told Effie that the unsigned will left everything to Jodi, not Megan. “That’s the opposite of a motive for murder,” I said.
“Maybe Jodi wasn’t aware of the contents of the will.”
“Maybe. But I have the feeling we were barking up the wrong tree with Jentry and Jodi. Yeah, they have a pot-growing operation, but maybe it’s not connected at all to Kathleen’s death.”
“Diddle,” Effie sighed and pulled out the inevitable Benson & Hedges. “Now what? You’re not quitting the investigation, are you?”
“Heck no. At least, not until Detective Albright tells us he’s found better suspects than you and me.”
“Then what next?”
“I’m not sure. I need to think it through.” I looked down at my sweat pants. “And I really need to get some other clothes. Could we stop by my apartment—I mean, my old apartment—after our stop at City Hall? Roger informed me that he packed up all my stuff and left the boxes in the mudroom of our building.”
“Festering little scab. Yes, of course.”
* * *
At City Hall—a gracious three-story brick building on the edge of downtown—we found Karl Knudsen’s office in the public works department. There wasn’t a receptionist in sight, so Effie rapped on his door.
“Come in,” he called.
Effie and I entered a cluttered cubbyhole of an office.
“Mr. Knudsen, so lovely to see you again,” Effie gushed, shaking his hand over his desk.
Karl, a rangy, stooped man with glasses and a silver ponytail, pulled his hand away. “Hello, Mrs. Winters.”
“This is my niece and personal assistant, Agnes Blythe,” Effie said. “You know, the mayor’s daughter?”
“Oh. Right.” Karl moistened his lips.
“I’m here to ask you to be an absolute knight in shining armor and reconsider the demolition date for the inn,” Effie said. “I do realize the building has been condemned for three years now, but it has been in my possession for only a few weeks, and I fully intend to bring it up to code and then restore it completely—”
“No,” Karl said in a flat voice. “The demo has been scheduled. That’s final.”
Effie blinked. “But I mean to spend every last cent I have to fix whatever—”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Winters, but you can’t just come waltzing in here at the last minute and expect me to pull strings for you. The inn’s days were numbered before you inherited it from your cousin, and yeah, it’s a real heartbreaker that you have big plans for it, but I’m going to have to say no.” Karl removed his glasses and chewed one of the earpieces.
“No,” Effie repeated. “No? Just like that? What can I do to make you change your mind?”
“Nothing. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do?”
Out in the hallway, I said to Effie, “I wonder why he’s so inflexible. What’s it to him whether or not the inn is razed?”
“It was only the day before yesterday that Kathleen Todd convinced him to set the demolition date. Something’s fishy.”
“He seemed nervous,” I said. “Did you see him gnawing on his glasses?”
“Perhaps he’s worried about displeasing the mayor’s daughter and aunt.”
“Maybe. So what are you going to do?”
“Get the wiring up to code by the end of the week. I really don’t seem to have any other options.”
Rewiring the entire inn so quickly seemed like an impossible task, especially with Chester at the prow, but I kept my lips zipped.
* * *
My old apartment building was a converted Victorian mansion inside the Naneda historical district. Effie stayed in the Cadillac, idling at the curb and smoking, while I went to the mudroom to get my stuff.
There weren’t any boxes. Only the same old rakes and other yard odds and ends that were always there. I went to the car, asked Effie for her phone, and called Roger.
“I’m very busy, Agnes,” he said. “I’m on my way to a faculty meeting.”
“You sound smug,” I said.
“Sour grapes, Agnes, sour—”
“I was just in the mudroom, and there aren’t any boxes.”
“I put them there myself. I think I pulled a muscle in my—”
“Then where are they?”
“I don’t know. Now I really must—”
I punched the end call button. It felt really good. Except—where in the H-E double toothpicks was my stuff?
The landlady, Millie, lived on the main floor. I buzzed her doorbell.
“Agnes,” she said when she opened the door. She wore a yellow bathrobe and held a squirming cat.
“Hi, Millie,” I said. “I guess you heard that Roger and I broke up?”
“Yes, dear. I’m so sorry. It would have been a coup for you to have snagged that one. He’s so clever!”
Puke. “Okay, well anyway, he said he left some boxes of my stuff in the mudroom?”
Millie stroked her cat. “Oh. Oh dear. I thought those boxes were for charity. Bobby next door hauled them off to the Goodwill this morning.”
“The Goodwill?”
“Yes. The donation center in Rochester.”
“Thanks, Millie.” I trudged back to the Cadillac.
“Well?” Effie said.
“All my earthly belongings have been hauled away to the Goodwill in Rochester.”
“How sad.”
“You don’t sound very sad. My wallet and contact lenses were in those boxes! And my cell phone charger and all my books and clothes. I don’t always wear sweat pants and ugly T-shirts, you know.” I glared down at my Naneda Debate Squad!!!! shirt. There were a couple muffin crumbs stuck to my midriff. They must’ve been there for hours. Stylish. I started picking them off.
“I’m certain you had some lovely pieces in your wardrobe, Agnes, but you’re going through a breakup, so perhaps you should embrace the sense of change and tweak your appearance.”
I popped the muffin crumbs in my mouth. “This isn’t the makeover montage in a chick flick. This is my life.”
“Suit yourself. Otis Hatch seemed to enjoy you in those sweat pants, anyway.”
I clapped a palm to my forehead. “Just drive.”
“Where?”
“To Mobile Phone Mart, for starters. I need a new phone charger. Oh, wait. Never mind. My wallet has been donated to the Goodwill.”
“I would be happy to advance you your first paycheck, Agnes.”
Inwardly, I groaned. Accepting an advance meant working to the end of the pay period—however long that was. We hadn’t discussed it. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”
While Effie drove, I used her phone to call the Goodwill donation center in Rochester. The man on the line told me that no one was allowed to go through the boxes of donated stuff, but I convinced him to let me have a look by telling him the boxes had been stolen. I hung up. “I have an appointment to rummage through a mountain of junk in Rochester at three o’clock,” I told Effie. “Could you give me a ride? Please?”
“Detective Albright told us we can’t leave town.”
“He’ll never know.”
“In that case, I’d be delighted to take you,” Effie said.
Chapter 12
Effie drove us to the Mobile Phone Mart in the small strip ma
ll on the edge of town. I bought a new phone charger with the wad of cash Aunt Effie had pushed into my hand. Then I insisted we stop at the sandwich shop next door for lunch. I bought a foot-long turkey and Swiss sub, Diet Coke, and barbecue potato chips. Aunt Effie bought a bottle of water and a salad in a plastic box. We took our trays to the furthest booth in the back.
“Okay,” I said once I’d eaten a few bites and buoyed my blood sugar. “Let’s take another look at the suspect list.” I pulled the list from my backpack and smoothed it on the table.
Bud Budzinski. Owner of Club Xenon nightclub/Main Street.
Gracelyn Roy. Local author.
Dorrie Tucker. Kathleen Todd’s best friend.
Jodi Todd. Kathleen Todd’s daughter.
Roland Pascal. Carpenter working on McGrundell Mansion repairs.
Susie Pak. Owner of Susie’s Speedy Maids.
“We have talked to everyone except Gracelyn Roy and Jodi,” I said.
Effie poked a flesh-tone tomato wedge with her fork. “I heard they put fish genes in tomatoes nowadays so they don’t freeze. Didn’t anyone tell them it makes the tomatoes taste like fish?” She pushed the salad away. “Jodi can’t be completely eliminated, you do realize. She could have a nonfinancial motive, and we don’t even know if she has an alibi or not.”
“Still, a top priority should be talking to Gracelyn Roy. We know next to nothing about her. Lucky me, I’m helping out at her book signing thing at the library tonight, so I can try to corner her there.” I tossed a potato chip in my mouth. “On the other hand, while I was waiting in line at the phone store, I realized—duh!—that Kathleen’s other daughter, Megan, has the motive.”
“Brilliant. Let’s get out of this horrible place—I always feel so exposed under fluorescent lights—and go see Megan.” Effie picked up her handbag and stood.
“Not so fast,” I said. “I’m still eating.” I squirted an extra mayo packet into my sandwich.
Effie sank back into her seat. “Megan wasn’t at the coffee shop yesterday morning. She’s not even on your suspect list.”
“Yeah, I was thinking about that. It’s possible that Jodi heard the rumor from Megan early on. After all, they’re sisters.”
Effie looked at her wristwatch. “We really ought to get going, Agnes, if we want to stop at Megan’s house before the drive to Rochester.”
Translation: I am out of my natural habitat in this greasy plastic booth, and I’m getting jumpy. “Fine. I’ll finish eating in the car.”
“Oh, good. Smear some of that mayonnaise on the upholstery for Paul’s benefit, mm-kay?”
* * *
I looked up Megan’s address on Effie’s phone, and we drove to her house. We pulled to a stop at the curb. It was a pristine white Dutch colonial with black shutters and a lawn like a minigolf course. The hedges had been clipped into perfect cubes and spheres. The front door shone glossy red. A brass door handle and kickplate gleamed.
“Dad told me that her husband is a doctor,” I said by way of explanation.
“My second husband was a doctor. A plastic surgeon.” Effie absently touched her pert nose. “Doctors make wonderful husbands.”
“I heard they make awful husbands. Always having flings with the nurses and writing themselves prescriptions for painkillers.”
“Yes, but they’re hardly ever home.”
“I’ve thought of what we can tell Megan. Remember how Susie Pak said Megan’s house was broken into last night? We can say the inn was broken into last night too, and we want to compare notes—figure out if it was the same person, something like that.”
“Agnes, my dear, you’re an absolute genius.”
We went to the front door and rang the bell. A dog yipped inside. A minute later, a very young, harried-looking woman in jeans, sweat shirt, and a glossy brown ponytail opened the door, holding a snarling gray-and-white Maltipoo. “Mrs. Lawrence isn’t home,” she said.
“And who are you?” Effie asked sweetly, peering around her.
“The housekeeper.”
“When will Mrs. Lawrence be back?” I asked.
“Maybe in an hour. She’s at the funeral home seeing to funeral arrangements for her mother. What do you want?”
“We’re friends of Megan’s,” I said.
The housekeeper took in my sweatpants and T-shirt. She didn’t seem convinced. The Maltipoo growled. “Shush, Babyboo,” the housekeeper said.
“We’ll come back later,” I said. Effie and I went back to the car.
The drive to Rochester took about forty minutes, and by the time we reached the Goodwill donation center, I was pretty sure I was addicted to nicotine. The people at the donation center showed me the avalanche of junk and boxes they had received so far that day. It was enough to fill three garages.
I poked through for about twenty minutes. I didn’t see any of my stuff, but I did get stabbed by a 1980s ski. Defeated, I went back to the Cadillac. It was going to be a massive pain to replace my driver’s license and credit cards.
Effie and I drove back to Naneda, and since I had to do the Gracelyn Roy book signing at the library, I stopped by the Stagecoach Inn only long enough to get my bike. We agreed to try to corner Gracelyn together at the library later and ask her about the rumor. We’d have to put off talking to Megan Lawrence till the morning, since Effie needed to help Chester dink around with the wiring.
“Or I could see her by myself this evening,” Effie said, “while you’re working at the library—”
“No!” I blurted.
A pause. “I didn’t know it meant so much to you, Agnes,” Effie said.
I hadn’t known, either.
Dad’s house was empty. The only message on the answering machine was about Cordelia’s hair appointment. I plugged my phone into my new charger in my room, grazed for a while in the kitchen—steering clear of the cherry pie Cordelia had left on the counter like bait—took a shower, checked my e-mail, watched Murder, She Wrote in the den (not as inspiring as I’d hoped, since there was only, like, one suspect), and at six forty-five, I set out for the library on my bike.
When I arrived at the library, dusk was falling, and the library’s big windows glowed yellow. Figures darted around inside. I stashed the bike in the rear parking lot by the recycling bin and went in.
“Agnes! Get over here!” Chris the Slug shouted. He held a clipboard, and he had a serious case of camel toe going on with his khakis. “Where have you been?”
“I’m only a couple minutes late,” I said. “By the way, I wanted to ask you why you thought it was necessary to snitch to the police about my run-in with Kathleen. That was super jerky.”
Chris fluttered his eyelids. “How could I not have? You threatened to strangle her, and she was strangled.”
“Wow. Well, if you think I’m a murderer, are you sure you’re comfortable with me serving hors d’oeuvres to the guests tonight? I mean, I might stab one of them with a toothpick or something.”
“Go. Change. Now.” Chris pointed toward the rear office. “Your uniform is back there.”
“Uniform?” I glanced down at the outfit I’d cobbled together: too-small gray cords, black turtleneck, and penny loafers, high school edition. “Isn’t this okay?”
“No, it’s not,” Chris said coldly. “Please. Ms. Roy will be here any minute, and I don’t want her to think we’re a bunch of amateurs.”
“We are a bunch of amateurs.”
“I hired a professional caterer.”
I went to the back office. A folding table was spread with trays of finger foods sealed under plastic wrap. A woman in a hairnet and one of those white food-service smocks had her back to me. She was fiddling with a package of paper napkins.
“Hi,” I said.
Hairnet grunted without turning around.
Okay. Not the chatty type, then.
A black-and-white polyester dress hung on a door. Mine, presumably. I grabbed it and went to the staff bathroom to change.
The first oh crap
moment came while I was zipping it up. I had to suck in everything like a hamster squeezing through a hole. When I let my breath out, I felt the pressure of my midriff against the zipper and seams. Impending explosion of nuclear proportions.
The second oh crap moment was when I looked in the mirror. It was one of those vaguely stripperish maid’s uniforms with the low-cut bodice, too-short hemline, and white ruffly apron. It had probably been designed by some scuzzy guy with an adidas tracksuit and five o’clock shadow. I stashed my own clothes on top of the bathroom cupboard and got cracking with the hors d’oeuvres.
Hairnet handed me a tray of bite-sized pigs in a blanket, and I took it out into the foyer. The library foyer was filling up. Most people congregated around a table at which Gracelyn Roy roosted. I recognized her from all the posters. Red curly hair. Dimples. Ample figure in a chambray dress. Pink cowboy boots. Her table was stacked high with books. I couldn’t see how I was going to have a private chat with her about the rumor.
I drifted around, offering pigs in a blanket. The crowd around Gracelyn grew thicker and thicker. Soon, all the pigs in a blanket were gone. I went back for another tray. Hairnet passed me miniquiches.
I was down to two quiches when someone behind me said, “Hey, I kind of like tiny quiche.”
I swung around. “Otis!” I steadied the tray. “You like miniquiches? The filling-crust ratio is completely off.”
Otis plucked one from the tray. “But look. It has bacon on it.” He popped it in his mouth, which should’ve been gross, but he had such nice white teeth that it looked awesome, like a miniquiche ad.
I frowned. Feeling this, well, this tug toward Otis was the last thing I needed. Oh—and I had completely analyzed it: the tug was only my subconscious revisiting the sensation of first love. Why, I hadn’t figured out yet. Maybe a side effect of my budding nicotine addiction. But it wasn’t like I was falling for Otis again. Gawd, no.
“You know, Otis, this is the fourth time I’ve seen you in the past few days, and every time, you’ve just showed up.”
Otis’s eyes twinkled. “The only way to make sure our meetings aren’t by coincidence is to plan them out ahead of time. Which I tried to do by inviting you to see the Varmints with me tonight, but you turned me down. Change your mind?”