by Maia Chance
“Uh-huh. Did you know Gracelyn’s got real famous?” Earlene pointed to a shelf where Gracelyn’s several books were on display.
“Yeah,” I said. “We’ve met her. She lives in Naneda where Kathleen, you must know, had been living for decades. Do you know why Kathleen and Gracelyn would have kept the fact that they were cousins a secret?”
“Nope,” Earlene said. “They always did fight a whole lot when they was kids, though. Gracelyn always came out from Buffalo every summer for a couple months. Her dad, Mike—that’s my brother—thought it would be good for Gracelyn to see to how real folks live, seeing as she was growing up all spoiled out in Buffalo. Going to a fancy school with them uniforms and never playing outside. Ballet class and French lessons, that’s what Mike and his snooty wife raised Grace up on.”
“Wait,” I said. “Grace?”
“That’s her name. Gracelyn’s the name she just cooked up for them books. To make her seem like real folks, you know? Mike’s another one that took off from Scump soon as he could. Became a real fancy lawyer. Makes a ton of money. ’Course, he don’t want to share any with his little sister, do he?” Something hard glimmered in Earlene’s eyes. “He don’t talk to me no more.”
“But Gracelyn does?” I asked.
Earlene paused, her eyes drifting past us. Weighing her words. “Yeah,” she finally said. “Gracie stops by and sees me every couple months. Makes sure I’m okay, what with all this stuff.” Earlene gestured to the oxygen tubes and tank.
“Mrs. Roy,” Effie said.
“Yeah?” Earlene looked Effie up and down. It was clear she didn’t like the looks of her.
“Do you have any idea why Kathleen would have kept several boxes of your old magazines?”
“No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Old issues of Good Housekeeping, Better Homes and Gardens, that kind of thing,” I said. “From the sixties.”
“Addressed to me, now?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, yeah. Those were Larlene’s. She saved up her money from babysitting to subscribe to them stupid things. Do I look like I go in for all that Betty Crocker bull?”
“But they were addressed to you.”
“Larlene was a kid. They probably wouldn’t deliver to a kid’s name. Hell if I know. But yeah, Larlene loved them magazines. She’d stare at ’em for hours. Started it up when she was only about ten. She’d ask me why our house didn’t look like them pictures, how come we didn’t have those meals with a meat and a vegetable and a bread all on one fancy plate, and I said, how the heck could I make our house and dinner look like a magazine when we were so poor and her dad was always giving me hell? Me and her dad used to fight like cats and dogs in them days, before he finally took off.”
Huh. Sounded like the magazines were a sort of fantasy world for young Kathleen/Larlene, a domestic paradise where everyone was smiling, every appliance was shiny, and every napkin was freshly ironed. In fact, from what I knew of Kathleen/Larlene, she must’ve carried this fantasy of domestic perfection forward into her adult life. Her position as the historical society chairlady had given her the opportunity to treat the town of Naneda as her personal domestic fantasy land. No wonder nobody liked her. And the boxes of old magazines, well, I figured she must’ve kept them for nostalgic purposes. Maybe she had decided to donate them to the library when the mildew situation got out of control.
“Where is Larlene’s dad now?” I asked.
“Dead. Snowmobile accident up in the Adirondacks. Good riddance, is what I said. Asshole.”
“Have you ever met Kathleen’s—I mean, Larlene’s—daughters, Megan and Jodi?” I asked.
“Not in person, no,” Earlene said, “but I did call Megan a couple times asking her for help with my medical expenses ’cause I heard she’s got a rich doctor husband. Little snot hung up on me both times.”
“Megan knew who you were?” Effie asked.
“Sure, ’cause I told her.” Earlene cackled, and then the cackles turned into phlegmy coughs. Once the coughs had subsided, Earlene added, “I don’t think Megan’s mom filled her in on the truth about her past, so I did it.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Oh, sometime last fall, I guess.”
“Did you tell Megan that Gracelyn is her aunt?”
“Yup. That sure was fun. I could tell Little Miss Perfect weren’t too happy about that.” Earlene cackled again. “Aw-right. My show’s starting, so you’re gonna have to leave.”
I couldn’t think of anything else to ask Earlene, even though my brain was buzzing with what-ifs. Otis, Effie, and I thanked Earlene and showed ourselves out. From behind us came the symphonic strains of a soap opera theme song.
* * *
We drove to The Moose Look since it was the only restaurant in town, and Otis and I were starving. Once I’d had several bites of the “moose special” biscuits and gravy, I was starting to think straight again. I was also trying really hard not to wonder if it was moose meat gravy. Admittedly, it was pretty tasty.
“Okay, so even though Gracelyn Roy’s dad was originally a hick, she isn’t really one,” I said. “But she’s pretending to be for the sake of her book brand. She certainly wouldn’t be the first person to put on the folksy act to appeal to the masses.”
“But why on earth were she and Kathleen pretending they didn’t know each other?” Effie said. “Even after Kathleen was killed, no one made a peep about the two of them being cousins. In Naneda, that means no one knew.”
“Gracelyn didn’t attend Kathleen’s funeral today either,” I said. “She was gardening.”
Otis said, “Maybe Gracelyn and Kathleen didn’t recognize each other after all these years. It sounded like they hadn’t seen each other since they were kids.” He took a bite of his hamburger.
“That’s possible,” I said, “although I can’t get over how Kathleen ripped down Gracelyn’s poster at the library. We’re talking Tyrannosaurus rex levels of fury. If Kathleen didn’t know she was her cousin, she hated her for some reason.”
“But the simplest explanation is always the best,” Effie said.
“And what’s the simplest explanation?” I asked.
“That Kathleen did know Gracelyn was her cousin—she had kept her name almost the same, yes? Grace Roy. Gracelyn Roy. How could Kathleen not have guessed?”
“And how come they hated each other?” Otis said. “Childhood feud?”
“Because Kathleen had spent years pretending that she’d grown up in an orphanage and that she was a pillar of the community, looking down her nose at everyone,” Effie said, “but in reality, she was from a trailer home in backwoods Scump.”
“Kathleen would’ve been afraid of losing her social power if people found out about her background,” Otis said. “She was a snob, and she probably assumed everyone else in town held the same views.” He wiped his lips and pushed his plate away. He’d polished off the burger, but several perfectly good fries still languished on his plate. I simply do not understand people who can leave fries on their plate.
“Want some fries?” Otis nudged his plate in my direction.
“What? No,” I said. “So here’s a theory: Kathleen knew that Gracelyn was a fraud, hick-wise, which would have threatened her blooming empire. She’s got all those books out, and she’s in talks with a television network for her own show. I’d guess that a ton of money is at stake for Gracelyn, and if her fans found out she was really from a well-to-do family and had gone to private school and had taken ballet and French lessons, well, they might turn their backs on her.”
“So Kathleen threatened to expose Gracelyn?” Effie said. “Prompting Gracelyn to turn around and murder her?”
“Why not?” I said.
“But if Gracelyn has so much at stake,” Effie said, “why didn’t she simply stay away from Naneda? Why would she move to a town where someone knew about her past? It doesn’t make sense.”
“The only thing I can think of is blackmai
l,” I said. I took a deep breath. “Okay, Gracelyn Roy, prime suspect. I want to talk to Megan and find out more about her mom and aunt’s relationship. I’ll call Megan from the car on our way back.”
“What about the drugs and Club Xenon?” Otis asked.
“Still not sure,” I said.
* * *
Otis drove, and Effie smoked in the back seat. I dialed Megan’s cell phone. Luckily, I’d gotten her number when we’d visited her.
“Hello?” Megan said in a snippy voice. Gentle hubbub in the background.
“Hi, Megan, this is Agnes Blythe—we met yesterday when my aunt and I stopped by to ask about the break-in at your—”
“How dare you call me!” Megan whispered hotly. “I’m at my mother’s goddam wake, and you call me to do more of your snooping? I reported your lies to the mayor, by the way.”
“Yeah,” I said. “He told me.”
“Did he ground you? Because I heard you’re living at home. You know, Agnes, when I was twenty-eight—you’re twenty-eight, aren’t you?—I was happily married, and I think that’s when I bought my house. It must be tough to be such a loser.”
Okaaaay. Megan was ultra–ticked off. I was pretty sure I knew why too. “I guess you found out today from the lawyer that your mom was planning on disinheriting you, huh, Megan? Lucky break that she kicked it before she signed that will.”
“You little—”
“Or are you upset about Bud and his heart attack?” If I could provoke Megan into blowing a gasket, maybe she’d spew a clue in the process. “Because I know that he was your lover, Megan, and that you gave him your husband’s prescription pads. What about the Rolodex? Did you give that to Bud too?”
Dead silence on the other end. Then Megan whispered scratchily, “You know about the Rolodex? Never mind—let’s talk about this in person. Just you and me. Now isn’t a good time. Half the town showed up for Mom’s wake. Bunch of nosey parkers.”
“Name your time,” I said.
“Ten o’clock tonight. My house.”
I glanced at the dashboard clock. Pushing six. I could make it. “Ten o’clock,” I said and punched end call.
“Whoa,” Otis said admiringly.
“Good work, Agnes,” Effie said, lighting up another ciggie in the back seat.
“Didn’t the sight of Earlene Roy and her oxygen tank spook you even a little?” I asked her.
Effie spouted smoke. “I’m supposedly seventy-two, darling. Do you really think I’m going to stop now? God, I think stopping would kill me.”
“Quite the spokesperson for the American Lung Association, aren’t you?” I said.
Otis had to check up on things at work, and after that, he had an unbreakable date to play gin rummy with his grandma, so he wouldn’t be tagging along on the rendezvous with Megan. We dropped him off at Hatch Automotive.
I was relieved to see him go, because I needed some time away from him and his smiling brown eyes and his arm muscles—how could they look that solid, by the way? Did he lift weights, or was all that toned tanned goodness from hefting around engine parts and . . .
Focus. Okay, essentially, it was too soon after my breakup to think about tearing off another guy’s clothes. Not that I’d ever actually torn off Roger’s clothes. He was the sock-folding type.
Chapter 23
In lieu of returning to Dad’s, I helped Chester at the inn for a few hours and ate Thai takeout by LED lantern light in the inn’s kitchen. When Effie and I pulled up in front of Megan’s house a few minutes before ten, her black Range Rover was in the driveway. No lights shone onto the dark lawn. No one answered the doorbell.
A dog yapped behind the house.
“That must be Megan’s Maltipoo,” I said.
The dog kept yapping.
“Maybe Megan is in the backyard and didn’t hear the doorbell,” Effie said. “We are a little early.”
“Okay, let’s check.”
We took the flagstone path that led alongside the house to the backyard.
More yapping.
“The dog is inside,” Effie said.
Low lights shone inside. The Maltipoo boinged back and forth behind the French doors.
“Um . . . he’s not wagging his tail,” I said. My mouth went sticky.
“Why would he? He wanted to tear our throats out when we saw him before, darling.”
“Yeah, but . . .” I’d had a lab mix as a child, so I recognized the shrill alarm in the dog’s bark. We crossed the patio. “My feet feel like cement.”
“It’s only those sneakers you’re wearing.”
“That dog is upset about something.”
“Perhaps about the two intruders in the backyard?”
I cupped my hands and peered through one of the French doors. Inside, the oven hood light was on, and all those white cabinets and slabs of Carrera marble seemed to glow.
“Omigod,” I whispered. “Megan’s on the floor!” Megan made a sad little heap of bathrobe and blonde hair over by the sink. I rattled the door handle. Locked.
Effie tried another handle. The alarm system beeped once as the door opened. Disarmed, thank goodness. We dashed inside.
I threw myself on the floor beside Megan. As soon as I saw her face, I knew we were too late. One cheek squashed against the floor, mouth open. Her skin was ashen, and her eyes stared.
“Looks like another heart attack,” Effie said, “but surely Megan couldn’t have had a heart attack. All that yoga—”
“Call the police!” I tried to shout. It came out like an Alpine yodel.
Effie rummaged in her handbag. “Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Where the hell is my Xanax?”
“Get your phone!” I shouted. I managed to scoot away from Megan.
Effie found her phone and called 9-1-1. While she was explaining herself in faltering tones to the dispatcher, my eyes fell on the marble island. Plastic-wrapped plates of cookies and brownies and foil-covered casseroles cluttered the island. I guessed that people had given all that food to Megan, the way people often give food to mourners. Only one dish had been opened, a gooey, cheesy macaroni casserole with a few servings sloppily carved from one side. I went over to the dishwasher and peeked in. The only thing in there was a cheese-globbed fork. Megan had eaten the macaroni straight out of the casserole dish.
Effie hung up. “The police and ambulance are on their way.”
“I think that casserole is poisoned.” I chewed the hangnail on my thumb. At least if Megan had been murdered with a casserole, the murderer wasn’t, say, in the house this very second.
“It’s called carbs, but the effects aren’t that instantaneous. Kidding.” Effie started digging in her purse again. I was about to yell at her for being too nonchalant about the whole thing, but she suddenly looked as frail as a wet sparrow. She found a prescription pill bottle, uncapped it, and popped a pill. She held up the bottle. “Want one?”
“No, thanks.” I glanced around the kitchen. “Do you see the Rolodex anywhere?”
“No, I don’t, but let’s have a quick look.” Effie started yanking open drawers. Sirens keened in the distance.
I went over to the built-in home office. It was organized with color-coordinated sticky pads, folders, and pushpins. No Rolodex on the desk. I checked all the drawers and shelves. No Rolodex. I checked inside the kitchen cupboards. Perfectly organized pantry items and white dishes. No Rolodex.
“I’m kind of creeped out about searching the rest of the house,” I said, hesitating in the doorway that led to the dining room.
Sirens wailed closer and closer.
“It’s too late, anyway,” Effie said. “You don’t want the police to catch you searching the house.”
“Oh, crud,” I said.
“What?”
“We’ve left fingerprints all over this kitchen!”
“Calm down. The police already know we’ve been here.”
“Yeah, but not opening every single drawer and cupboard. They’ll know we were searching for some
thing.” My upper lip broke out into a sweat.
“Oh. I see your point. I’m going out for a cigarette.”
I followed Effie outside. We stood on the patio, Effie smoking and me chewing my hangnail, and that’s how we were when the police and paramedics arrived.
A burly policewoman told us that we were going to have to go to the station to make statements. She corralled us into the back of a squad car and locked us in.
“Is this really happening?” I said. I massaged my temples. Dead bodies were piling up. I was locked in the back of a police car with my great-aunt. And I could not make my brain stop trying to solve this puzzle. Maybe popping Xanax was a good idea; Aunt Effie was at that point as cool as a cucumber.
“I loathe the smell of those little dangly tree things,” Effie said. “Air fresheners, they call them. They’re little polluters!” She fished a lipstick and a compact out of her handbag.
There was no way that, when Effie and I went to prison, we would have to share a cell, right?
“Wait a second.” I sat up straight. “When I called Megan, she was at the wake, and she mentioned the Rolodex. She literally said Rolodex.”
“Your point?” Effie smeared on lipstick.
“My point is that someone at the wake overheard her making plans to meet us and discuss the Rolodex, and this someone got Megan to eat the poisoned casserole before we could talk to her. This is all about the Rolodex!”
“Fewer than twenty-four hours ago, you swore that this was all about drugs, Agnes.”
“I know, but maybe the Rolodex has, I don’t know, the names and phone numbers of drug customers.”
“Bud is dead. Megan is dead. We don’t know of anyone else involved in drugs except Jentry and Gothboy.” Effie popped the cap back on her lipstick. “Honestly, it’s a bit bizarre, because Megan didn’t look like she ever ate carbs, let alone macaroni casseroles.”
“Her mom and her lover were murdered,” I said. “If it was me, I’d be eating entire pans of sticky buns.”
“Well, you are a Blythe.”
“You know, it makes me think that whoever gave Megan the casserole knew that she couldn’t resist—specifically—a cheesy macaroni casserole.”