The Secret Ingredient Murders: A Eugenia Potter Mystery

by Nancy Pickard

  Genia made a grimace of distaste and begged Nikki and Stanley to forgive her for even considering it. Seen on paper like this, it looked impossible and the logistics were ridiculous, for why would father and daughter have an argument—any argument—in the middle of the forest on a rainy night? Anyway, Genia assumed the police would thoroughly investigate Nikki Parker Dixon because she was the main beneficiary of Stanley’s estate. If there was motive in his last will and testament, surely they’d find it.

  She felt only slightly less guilty when she turned the page and began to imagine the person whom Stanley would have suspected first. “Oh, all right, Stanley!” she exclaimed out loud. “I’ll put him first in line.” She turned back to the empty first page, and wrote in block letters: RANDY DIXON.

  When Randy heard from his resentful wife about the change in Stanley’s will, he knew push had finally come to shove.

  Neither of the Dixons was invited to Genia Potter’s dinner party—yet another exclusion with Stanley behind it. But that gave Randy exactly the opportunity he needed to act on his motive. If he knew his father-in-law’s habits as well as he thought he did, he knew where to find the old man alone and vulnerable.

  Surprise would help.

  There would be no time for Stanley to yell, to raise an alarm, or to fight back, as feeble as his effort would be.

  It was as easy as falling off a log.…

  Only it wasn’t Randy Dixon who fell.

  “Enough,” Genia rebuked herself, laying down her pen and paper. It was almost time for the Devon Arts Council meeting. Personally, she didn’t care if they voted for their art festival or not, but she wanted to attend so that she might squelch rumors about her family. Quickly, she dressed, grabbed a bite to eat, and ran out to her car.

  22

  THE PROOF IS IN THE PUDDING

  It appeared that half of South County was already there, crowding into the quaint little Devon Town Hall that was used for various subcommittees and civic entities like the arts council. As Genia joined the throng, she overheard one matron say to another, “I didn’t realize the art festival meant this much to you, Heather.” To which Heather retorted, “It doesn’t, Marge. I couldn’t tell a van Gogh from a Dodge van. But two murders have been committed, and I’m not planning on staying home alone!” Local residents seemed to be expressing a communitywide urge to come together in a show of civic solidarity that made them feel a little safer. Genia suspected that the meeting of the arts council was just a timely means for them to do it.

  “Aunt Genia, over here!”

  She followed the sound of her niece’s voice until it led her to an empty metal chair between Donna and Kevin. As she sat down in it, both of them leaned over to talk to her at once.

  “Thank you so much—”

  “—appreciate your help, Genia—”

  “Don’t know what we’d do without—”

  “I haven’t got a sou, and I don’t want Donna to have to sell the house to pay for Jason’s legal bills.” Kevin’s deeper voice won the competition for her attention, and she heard him add, “I’ll find a way to pay my own bills, but we’ve got to have the best for Jason. I feel embarrassed that I can’t handle it all myself, but I’m so grateful to you, Genia.”

  She felt embarrassed by then, too.

  “How’s our boy?” she asked them.

  “He’s all right,” Donna said, looking a little amazed. “I think he was more afraid of my reaction than he was of the police. Kevin and I have decided that Jason ought to go stay with him out on the island for a while; what do you think of that idea?”

  “I like it,” Genia said approvingly.

  She caught glimpses of people sneaking peeks at them and then quickly turning away when they got caught staring. Obviously the word was out that Jason was suspect number one, with his father running a close second. Genia thought it courageous of both Kevin and Donna to show up at all, and she was proud of them for sticking together for Jason’s sake. Every now and then someone in the audience looked their way and gave the Edens a thumbs-up sign of support that made Genia’s own heart glow. Several women reached out their hands to grasp Donna’s and to squeeze it. And there were men who clasped Kevin’s shoulder as they walked by, murmuring variations of “Hang in there, Kev.” But there were plenty of suspicious-looking glances, too, and glares and frowns, the sour ingredients in this stew of humanity. Genia heard one man say angrily, “What are they doing here?” She even heard somebody whisper, “Who’s she?” pointing directly at her.

  The council chamber was packed in no time.

  Up in front, the president of the arts council, Lindsay Wright, looked both beautiful and nervous, Genia thought. Clearly, she had prepared her attire carefully for this event, but she seemed in no way prepared for a crowd of this size. She tapped the microphone in front of her place, in the position where the mayor usually presided over town council meetings, and said in a voice hardly anybody could hear, “… come to order.” When that had no effect, she tried again. Finally, after her third try, Lawrence Averill himself stood up in the front row and boomed out, “Everybody sit down and shut up now! Lindsay’s trying to get your attention! If you please!”

  Lindsay smiled gratefully at him as the group began to settle down.

  She was all alone up there, and Genia felt sorry for her. She was an awfully young woman to have to deal unexpectedly with a restless crowd like this one.

  “Welcome to the monthly meeting,” Lindsay said in a high, formal little voice, “of the Devon Arts Council.” She faltered for a moment, her blue eyes seeming to search the room for something, and then she found what she was looking for: Harrison Wright, her husband, standing in a corner, with his arms folded across his chest, smiling encouragingly at his wife. Lindsay visibly calmed down, and so, it felt to Genia, did most everybody else who had swiveled their heads to see where Lindsay was looking. Harrison seemed to have that happy knack of just making people feel better, certainly a fortunate ability for a weatherman who occasionally had to forecast hurricanes or blizzards.

  Lindsay continued with more confidence.

  “We are meeting tonight principally to decide whether or not to sponsor and fund the proposed art festival, but before we go any further, there is something I want to say.” She paused, and the audience became very quiet, sensing what was to come next. “One man was responsible for founding this arts council, one man kept it running through the years, and one man was the driving force and patron behind the idea of the festival. As president of the council, I would ask you to join me in a moment of silence to honor the late, great Stanley Parker.”

  Instead of silence, there was a single loud gasp.

  Along with everybody else, Genia craned her neck to see who had released that shocked sound, and her gaze settled on a tall, slim woman with radiant red hair, seated toward the rear of the chamber. She looked about fifty years old, and she was elegantly turned out in a bright green silk suit with a soft white scoop-neck blouse. Her face now looked nearly as red as her hair as she registered the reaction she had elicited from the crowd. Genia had never seen her before. “Who’s that?” Kevin whispered over her, to Donna. His ex-wife shrugged back at him. Behind them, the mortified stranger lowered her gaze to the floor, and finally people mercifully turned away from staring at her.

  Whoever she was, Genia thought sympathetically, she had just found out the hard way that Stanley was dead and the news had startled her, just as it would have shocked any of the rest of them if they had heard it for the first time tonight.

  As she settled in to listen to democracy in action, Genia surreptitiously pulled out of her large handbag a yellow legal pad and a pen. Nobody needed her opinion on this issue, which was none of her business anyway, and she intended to make use of the time by continuing the deductive guesswork she had earlier commenced.

  “Taking notes?” her niece whispered. “You must be really interested in the festival. Why don’t you move here, Aunt Genia? We’d love to have you
here all the time.”

  Genia smiled at her, and then carefully shielded her notes from the view of anyone who might be reading over her shoulder.

  All of his life Larry Averill has only really wanted two things—to be elected to the Rhode Island State Legislature and to marry Celeste Hutchinson. But he’s sixty years old now and both of those desires have been denied him.

  Now, however, with the art festival about to put his town on the map—and his own name in the newspapers—Larry believes he is on the verge of making the first dream come true at last.

  Stanley is no threat to that.

  But Stanley has threatened Larry’s dream girl, Celeste. In a drunken, weepy confession one night, she tells Larry everything—about her business failures, her love and need for David, and her suspicion that Stanley came between them.

  The next day, Celeste has no memory of the conversation.

  But Larry remembers every word of it. And he hates Stanley for hurting Celeste. So great is his self-sacrificing love for her that he would even see her married to another man if that would save her and give her peace of mind and happiness at last.

  How dare Stanley Parker interfere in other people’s lives, their hearts, their hopes?

  Full of unrequited love for Celeste, feeling like her knight in shining armor, Larry charges off before the dinner party to do battle with the patriarch of Devon.

  “You’ve got no right to do things like this to people, Stanley. This is Celeste’s last chance for happiness!”

  “You mean she’s not willing to be a poor politician’s wife?”

  It’s too much for Larry to bear. Stanley’s mockery, his self-righteousness, is too much. The town would be better off without the controlling old man. No more Stanley to hurt Celeste. With him out of the way, Larry can go to David Graham, tell him it was a lie, that Celeste is fine, all she needs is a stay at a treatment center, and love.

  “I hate you for hurting her, Stanley!”

  He proves it by killing Celeste’s enemy.

  Genia flipped pages over that one to cover it and looked up just in time to see Celeste Hutchinson standing at the microphone in the center aisle.

  “… be wonderful for business in general,” Celeste was saying. Genia wondered how long she had been talking and how many other people had gone before her. “And it would be grand for real estate in particular.” That drew a chuckle from everyone who knew her vested interest in that subject.

  Genia found that her attention peaked and waned based on whether or not she knew the speaker. Even then her mind drifted to other things, so that she only heard dibs and dabs of what her acquaintances had to say.

  “… just think it would be the greatest thing for Devon,” boomed the mayor. “Put us on the map …”

  “… disagree that they’ll only buy art out on the island,” Donna argued forcefully in the face of a few hostile glares. Genia tried to pay close attention to what her niece had to say. “A lot of tourists will wander through town, and I’m sure that galleries like mine will do a lot of extra business.…”

  “… sorry to differ with my ex-wife,” Kevin said next, after bumping past Genia’s knees to reach the aisle. But he said it in a way that was so charming people had to laugh, especially when they saw that Donna was smiling, too. “But that’s a pristine island, and I don’t think Stanley really thought it through, what it will be like with thousands of people tromping on the wildlife.…”

  The next time Genia paid attention, it was because David Graham was standing at the microphone, looking handsome and a little embarrassed, as if he weren’t sure he was enough of a Devonite yet to qualify to speak to these issues. “… great for business,” he was saying, “even if it will cost a lot in terms of extra police protection and garbage pickup and signage, and so on. I think my late wife would have said it was worth it anyway. Yes, we’ll get a little litter in our front yards, but surely we can cope with that. Yes, it may overburden our town’s budget, but maybe we can raise our taxes a little to compensate.” Boos and hisses broke out from scattered spots in the chamber, and David smiled to acknowledge them. “Or maybe not.” There was laughter when he so quickly backtracked from the touchy subject of taxes. “Yes, the traffic may be impossible for a few days, but can’t we live with a little inconvenience for just a little while?”

  “More than a little!” somebody shouted out.

  “Excuse me?” Lindsay breathed into her microphone. “One person at a time, please? Go ahead, Mr. Graham.”

  “That’s all I was going to say.” He smiled supportively at her. “I agree there will be problems with litter, increased traffic, extra expense every year, and as Kevin says, there may be damage to the ecosystem of Parker Island. But I don’t think that’s too much sacrifice to make for an event of this magnitude. I urge the council to approve the motion.”

  Grumblings in the audience suggested not all were so sanguine as he about the “little sacrifices” this wealthy man seemed to think the rest of them wouldn’t mind making. Genia thought that in his effort to be honest about the advantages and disadvantages, David might have done more harm than good to the cause he meant to support. Up front, the mayor had a rueful look on his face, as if privately thinking that some people were natural politicians and some people were not.

  In the end, the council took their vote, and it was a tie.

  “It’s up to me to break the tie,” Lindsay said, looking scared.

  Shouts broke out from the opposing factions, urging her to vote one way or the other. They could actually see her swallow hard, before she started to speak. “I vote …”

  Everyone knew it would be “no,” which would scuttle the motion. Lindsay’s opinion of “art” versus “craft” was well-known, if not very popular.

  “Excuse me? Lindsay? May I speak first?”

  Heads turned as an attractive young woman in glasses walked down the center aisle toward the microphone.

  “Nikki?” Lindsay looked nonplussed. “Of course.”

  Nikki Parker Dixon’s soft voice was magnified for all to hear. “This may not be in Robert’s Rules of Order for me to interrupt a vote like this, and I’m sorry to be late. But I have to tell you that I think you’ve forgotten something kind of important. My dad is not in charge of the island anymore. I am, because I inherited it. It will be up to me to decide whether or not I want any public events held out there, and to tell you the truth, I just haven’t made up my mind. I’m really sorry, but I think you’re going to have to delay your vote.”

  “Oh.” Lindsay looked pouty, like a child who hadn’t gotten her way. “Well, as you say, it’s your island,” she said less than graciously. “So I guess we’ll have to.” Murmurings ranging from outraged to relieved to amused ricocheted around the chamber. Behind her, Genia heard a woman mutter, “You’d think they would have thought of this before they asked us all to come over here.” That sentiment rather neatly avoided the fact that the arts council had not, in fact, invited the whole community, Genia reflected; the whole community had just shown up.

  “Is there a motion to adjourn?” Lindsay asked.

  “I move—” someone said, but got no further, because up in front an elderly white-haired man stood up and interrupted the motion.

  “Lindsay?” he began.

  “Yes, Mr. Brooks?”

  It was Genia’s turn to whisper to her niece, “Who’s that?”

  “Willard Brooks,” Donna whispered back. “President of the bank, and a member of the arts council, and a friend of Stanley’s.”

  “Lindsay,” the old man said in a kind but firm voice, which did not project very well without a microphone, “there is one more item of old business I feel it is incumbent upon me to raise. Stanley raised it last time, if you will remember, and we still have not settled it to anyone’s satisfaction.”

  Now that the art festival discussion was over, many in the crowd were getting up to leave and the room was rapidly emptying. Genia, Donna, and Kevin stayed where they w
ere, trying to hear what was being said up front.

  “… audit” was practically the only word Genia made out, although she did hear a phrase with two large monetary figures in it, and a familiar name that made her sit up straighter in her chair. “… a memo from Stanley saying there should be thirty-two thousand dollars instead of …”

  “… take that up later” was the only part of the answer she heard from Lindsay, although she thought she also heard “… easy to explain.” Whatever it was, the bank president seemed satisfied with what the president of the arts council said to him, and he sat back down while the motion for adjournment carried the day. Or evening, as it were, since it was dark outside by the time Genia, her niece, and former nephew-in-law made their way down the stairs to the sidewalk. Genia heard a voice calling her name. Searching for the source, she was surprised to discover it was the mayor of Devon who was trying to get her attention. She made her way toward him, followed by Donna and Kevin, who were stopped along the way by other acquaintances.

  She, too, was halted before she reached her destination.

  “Hello, Genia,” she heard a pleasant voice say, and she looked up to find Harrison Wright smiling down at her. “I thought Lindsay was going to have a real storm on her hands in there, but it was only a little cloudy weather. Didn’t she handle herself well?”

  “Very well, Harrison.” Genia smiled back at him. Then she glanced at the clear night skies. “Speaking of storms, when is the big one going to arrive?”

  “I’m forecasting it for Saturday.”

  “Two days from now? Goodness, thanks for the warning. What about tomorrow?”

  “Rainy and cool.”

  “Thank you, Harrison. It’s so handy to know you!”

  He laughed and waved good-bye when she left his side.

  She reached the mayor just as he was handing a small white card to the red-haired stranger, the same woman who had gasped at the news of Stanley’s demise.