“How?”
“The shop was only in Grandma Kay’s name.” He drew in a breath. “For whatever reason, I don’t know why, you’d have to ask Mom or Dad about that. I’m sure PopPop would never discuss it. And because she was the owner and he is—was—a master con man, Stephen Bayard convinced Grandma Kay, in her fragile state of mind, to sign over the store to him.”
“Sell it to him?”
“I don’t know if there was even any money involved. He proposed that he could help make it better for the family or some nonsense like that, and even sick, Grandma Kay was all—”
“About family,” I said, finishing his sentence.
“Exactly.”
“Then what happened?”
“PopPop had to go to probate court. Prove that Grandma Kay was incompetent,” he said. He stared down at his hand. “That broke his heart. He never wanted that said about his wife, the love of his life—that she was incompetent. Incapable of doing anything—let alone for it to be in court documents for the world to see.”
I remembered O said nowadays you could find just about anything about a person online. I wondered whether those records were out there on the web for all eyes to see.
“Without it being declared that she wasn’t of sound mind,” Lew continued, “the contract for that . . . man . . . to take over the shop could have been found valid.”
“Oh,” I said, nodding, “I see.”
“But that man didn’t just hurt our family. He hurt other people in the village, too.”
“Like who?” I asked.
Lew shrugged. “Like Dan Clawson, for one.”
“Oh right,” I said. “Mommy told me about that. He caused his marriage to break up.”
“His whole family,” Lew said. “When Mr. Clawson’s wife left, she took their son, and Mr. Clawson didn’t see him for a long time.”
“Oh wow,” I said. “Is Mr. Clawson still around? He might be a good suspect.”
“Mr. Clawson, I think, is around the same age as PopPop. So maybe.” Lew stared out the windshield. “His son, Danny, is still around, though. He might be a good suspect.”
“The son that went with Mrs. Clawson when she left with Stephen Bayard?”
“If that’s where Mrs. Clawson went when she left, yes. I don’t know that for sure.”
“It’s what Mom said,” I said.
“All I know is that Mr. Clawson’s son came back to be close to his father.”
“Back to the village?”
“Yeah. Because I think Mr. Clawson is in a nursing home somewhere or something. Danny lives in their old house. I saw him at the grocery store not too long ago. I believe that’s what he told me.”
“Who else?”
“Who else?” he asked.
“Who else did Stephen Bayard do something to?”
“Oh. Um. Ms. Devereaux. Wallace Keller—”
“Mr. Keller?” I interrupted.
“Remember he owned Nico’s Family Restaurant?”
“Of course I remember,” I said.
“Yeah, well, I think something happened with his restaurant because of something Stephen Bayard did. I’m not sure what. I think for a while every business that had trouble blamed it on that man. I heard he had his hand in everything. I remember Mom saying he was a sweet talker. Had an angel’s smile and a devil’s tail.”
“I’ve seen him in action,” I said. “I met him outside the ice cream shop and he made me think he was the best of friends with the whole family and that he was a kindhearted, puppy-loving guy.”
“Yeah, Mom told me. That’s how I know all of the stuff I know about him. She told me.”
I frowned. “She didn’t tell me anything.”
“She thinks she needs to protect you. Just like Dad and PopPop do.”
“Yeah,” I said, a confused look on my face. “Why is that?”
He chuckled. “Because you’re the baby.”
I rolled my eyes. “They couldn’t still think like that,” I said. I’d heard that enough in my life. “Anyway,” I huffed, “back to the restaurant. Stephen Bayard took it from Mr. Keller?”
“No. That’s when Ari Terrain got it. After Stephen Bayard got through with Mr. Keller, he left town and Ari got it.”
“Ari, huh?” I said thoughtfully.
Maisie’s number-one suspect.
Maybe the email Maisie got really was about blackmail. Stephen Bayard had said that Ari owed him. Was it for getting the restaurant for him?
“Did Stephen Bayard help Ari out in getting the restaurant?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Lew said.
“What did Stephen Bayard do to Mr. Keller? I mean, how could he have taken the restaurant?”
“I don’t know that either,” he said. “I’ve heard a few things. One involved something like a Ponzi scheme. Some sort of dubious investment scheme.” He hunched his shoulders. “I’m not sure.”
“So Mom told you that, too?” I asked.
Seemed Lew had been the right brother to ask. I had no idea Stephen Bayard had caused so much hurt and damage all over our little village. That really opened up the suspect pool.
I wonder if Detective Beverly knows about all of that.
“I’ve heard PopPop, Ms. Devereaux and Mr. Clawson talking a few times about it, too,” Lew said. “They used to have their own little chamber of commerce group. As shop owners, they’d meet, sometimes at the house. Talk about their businesses.”
“They still do,” I said, although I had yet to go to any of their meetings. “So, if Stephen Bayard did all of this stuff to so many people, why didn’t he go to jail for it?”
I’d only found one prison record. I remembered the site noted that a convict wouldn’t be listed unless he was still in prison, judicially released or still under supervision like probation. It was possible he’d been in jail lots of times. Wronged lots of people.
“I don’t know that he didn’t,” he said. “I just remember hearing that he left here pretty quickly. But maybe they caught him.” He stopped talking, his eyes drifted. I could tell he was thinking.
“I wonder why he was back in town,” I said. “You’d think he’d be afraid to return here.”
He shrugged. “I was just thinking the same thing. It’s been a lot of years.” He slowly shook his head, seemingly in disgust. “That man had no shame. Probably thought no one would make him answer for all the wrong he’d done or else he wouldn’t have kept doing it.”
“You think he was here doing wrong?”
“What else could he have been doing?”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
“Where was he staying?” Lew asked.
“I don’t know. Why?”
“That’s what the police should be looking into.”
“Why?”
“Because no one here liked him. Whomever he stayed with must have been hiding him. Or covering for him.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe he was just so bold to come back and spout lies to you about PopPop and Grandma Kay.”
“He was bold, but someone else was even bolder,” I said. “Someone killed him right on a street corner.”
“Hmpf.” He ran his hand over his hair. “I guess you’re right about that.”
“I need to find out who that could be.”
“No, you don’t.” He looked at me. “The police will find that out, Win,” he said. “Don’t you go and do anything.”
I looked at him, weighing whether I should tell him what Maisie and I had already been up to.
“Too late,” I said.
“Too late?” He let out a laugh. One that came with a warning. “Don’t go snooping around, Win.” He pointed a finger at me. “It’s always best to let the police do their job—”
“Not when their job includes arresting my dad
dy,” I said defiantly.
“No one is arresting Dad.”
“You said they might not know what they’re doing. They’re not used to investigating murders.”
“I didn’t say that for you to go poking your nose in.”
“I just want to help Dad,” I said. “You should want to, too. That man was killed with succinylcholine. It’s used in surgeries.”
“I know what it’s used for,” he said.
“Daddy uses it during surgery.”
“He doesn’t,” Lew said, his forehead creasing. “An anesthesiologist would use it during surgery.”
“Yeah, that’s what Daddy told the detective, but that detective didn’t care. He knew Daddy had a reason to hate Stephen Bayard and access to the drug that killed him. That was all he cared about. Plus”—I blew out a breath—“Daddy told me he was at work when I found the body and he wasn’t.”
“How do you know he wasn’t? Dad wouldn’t lie.”
“Yeah, well, he did. He had on sweatpants and Timberland boots when he came down to get me after I found that body. And when I asked where he’d been, he said at work.”
“In sweats?” Lew’s eyebrow went up.
“Yep.”
His hand swiped across his eyebrows. “Oh. That’s not good,” he said.
“Tell me about it,” I said. “Why would our father lie?”
“So what are you trying to do?” he asked.
“Maisie thinks that Ari killed him.”
“You got Maisie helping you?” His face showed amusement.
“She watches detective shows on the BBC or Acorn or something.”
He chuckled. “You haven’t questioned Ari, have you?”
“Uhmmmm . . .” I hummed out the word. “Nooo. Not really,” I said, my voice getting tinny. “But we did find an email from someone we think was Stephen Bayard that made us think he was blackmailing Ari.”
“That you think was from Stephen Bayard?”
“Yeah.”
“How did you get it?”
“Uhm . . .”
“Never mind,” he said, holding up his hand to stop me. “It was from Stephen Bayard’s email address or something?”
“No. It was from the Pink Panther.”
“And why do you think the Pink Panther is Stephen Bayard?”
“Because he was working at Molta’s under the name Peter Sellers.”
“Who is Peter Sellers?”
“An actor.”
“I don’t get the connection.”
“He played the Pink Panther in movies.”
“I thought that was Steve Martin.”
“Steve Martin was in the remake.”
“Oh. Well don’t let Maisie lead you down some stray path,” he said. “Follow the clues. Stay under the radar. I’m sure you doing your own investigation could get you in trouble with the police. Obstructing justice or something.”
“Yeah, I’m trying to be careful.” If only I could get Maisie to be, too. “And honestly, I don’t know if I’m any good at this. I don’t know what to do. That’s why I came to you.”
“The only way to get answers is to ask questions.”
“Like what?” I said. “And to who?”
“Find out where he stayed. Find out who he talked to”—he shot me a glance—“other than you. I’m sure the police probably have already done anything we can think of.”
“Ask questions,” I said contemplatively.
“Then find out—I don’t know how you’d do it—but find out how Ari was able to purchase that restaurant,” he continued. “Maybe they were working together and you’re on the right track. He tried to blackmail Ari and Ari killed him. You don’t want to talk to Ari, though, because if he did do it—kill Stephen Bayard to stop him from interfering with his life or business or whatever—he’d probably have no qualms about killing you, too. You don’t know, maybe the way Ari acquired that restaurant was shady and he is shady, too.”
“Oooh. Shady,” I said, and shivered, feigning fear. He seemed to be describing one of those old black-and-white AMC films instead of the goings-on in Chagrin Falls.
“You gotta take it seriously, Win, if you’re serious about doing this.”
“I am,” I said. I was surprised I’d won him over. Who knew he’d think it was okay for me to play amateur sleuth?
“See what you can find out,” Lew said. “But be careful.”
chapter
TWENTY-SEVEN
Lew said I had to ask questions. Maisie said we had to ask questions.
We hadn’t asked anyone any questions. I’d just lifted emails from people’s private accounts, or at least hung out with a girl who did, and looked up prison records online.
Oh. Lew. I had asked Lew plenty of questions. But he wasn’t a suspect.
Who were my suspects?
I got into my car, buckled the seatbelt and turned the ignition. I didn’t pull off right away because I was lost in thought.
I could ask Ms. Devereaux questions. She might have answers. Then again—I cocked my head to the side—she could be a suspect. Especially now since Lew had told me Stephen Bayard might have wronged her.
But why would Debbie Devereaux have succinylcholine? And because of the way the drug acted, Maisie and I had concluded it probably was a man who took Stephen Bayard’s life. Debbie was a woman. A nearly seventy-year-old woman. She had a lot of stamina, but I didn’t think she could handle a body. Still, I could ask her questions . . .
I got a notification beep on my watch. I had a text message from Maisie.
Where are you?!?!! Drove by house and shop, no you!! Don’t go snooping without me!
She had fist jabs, crying faces, googly eyes and way too many exclamation marks peppered all through the short text.
“Now she’s spying on me,” I muttered. “Oh!” I screeched, and threw the car into gear. “My house!” I’d forgotten.
Mr. Wallace Keller, who owned the restaurant that Ari had gotten, whether legally or not, was now dead. He’d died more than five years ago. Nothing suspicious. Just old age and years of smoking. But his wife was still alive. And she was my landlord!
I heard an angelic chorus hit a high note.
I had someone to ask questions to!
I did a U-turn and headed back toward North Main.
I decided I should go and see her with a gift in hand. I knew she’d love some ice cream. A little frosty, tasty bribe might make her more willing to talk. My Grandma Kay used to say that our ice cream could warm even the coldest soul.
Not that Mrs. Keller was mean. She wasn’t, she was sweet. But she’d gone through a lot of loss lately. First her husband, and then her little pet dachshund, Max. She had loved that wiener dog and looked lost without him for company. My mother had said without him, she probably would have withered away after the loss of her husband.
It was late, and I had my fingers crossed she’d still be up. I wanted—no—needed to know how Mr. Keller had lost the restaurant.
I whooshed into the ice cream shop, grabbed an ice cream scooper and two pint-sized containers, and swung open the freezer. I didn’t know what she’d like. Three of the trays were filled with ice cream my mother had made. She made good ice cream, but I was trying to woo Mrs. Keller into giving me information about what I was sure had to be a sore subject. I wanted the one I used for bargaining power to be one I’d made.
I decided to go with the fruity ones. I still had some of the Ghoulish Blueberry, just enough to fill the container. And I spooned up some of the banana nut.
God, I hoped she had good teeth. There were a lot of nuts in that one.
I re-covered the trays with the plastic wrap, placed lids on top of the containers and closed the freezer back up. I ran out to my car. I didn’t want her going to bed on me, and I didn’t want her nod
ding off while I asked her questions.
Hopefully, the sugar would help with that.
I made it home, pulled the car all the way back in the driveway and noticed her lights were still on. “Thank goodness,” I muttered. I grabbed my knapsack and the two pints of ice cream. I wished I’d put them in a bag. My hands were freezing.
I tucked one in the crook of my arm, knocked on her door and waited.
Mrs. Marguerite Keller was in her eighties or close to it. She was short and stout, just like a teapot. And so was everything about her. Her white hair was short, and so were her fingers and her nose. She had thin slits for eyes, a face full of wrinkles and age spots everywhere. She always wore a flowered housedress, with knee socks and house shoes, and she smelled like rosewater.
After what seemed like forever, I saw the light to the interior door come on.
“Who is it?” she asked, trying to make her voice loud.
“It’s me, Mrs. Keller,” I said. “Win.”
“Win? Okay, hold on a minute. I have to get the key.”
Who comes to the door without the key?
“Okay,” I said. At least I didn’t have to worry about the ice cream melting.
I tapped out her minute with my foot and started trying to think about what I was going to ask her. My questions needed to be ones that might lead me to a killer.
How was I going to manage that?
I wondered if Maisie would know what to ask. And as if my thoughts had gone out into the air and to Maisie’s house, the notification ding went off on my watch again. Without looking, I knew it was Maisie, but there was no time to check her message.
“I got it. I got it,” Mrs. Keller said, coming back to the door. I heard her fiddling with the lock and wished I could help her. “Hold on.”
“Okay,” I said. “Take your time.”
“Got it,” she said again, this time referring to the lock and not the key. “Come on in, Win. I know it’s cold out there.”
“Hi, Mrs. Keller,” I said, stepping inside. I stomped my feet to get any excess snow off.
“Is everything alright?” she asked, stepping back inside to let me in. “Is it warm enough upstairs?”
A Deadly Inside Scoop Page 19