Her chest heaved, and I heard her breath shudder. She was scared.
In spite of my feelings about her, I invited her in.
“Would you mind drawing the curtains?” asked Edith.
“Has Horace been released from the hospital?” If she thought he was trying to harm her, she didn’t need to worry while he was incapacitated. Unless she thought he had hired someone. What was I thinking? Horace wouldn’t hurt anyone. He didn’t even want her to know about Brown-Eyed Girl!
“No. But he has friends.”
I was one of them. Surely she realized that. “May I take your coat?”
“Yes, thank you. You certainly have a lot of friends. I thought they would never leave.”
I drew the curtains closed. “Could I offer you some hot chocolate?”
“No. Have you a bottle of water with an intact seal?” She didn’t bother removing her black gloves.
“Probably. Would you like ice?”
“No.”
I fetched a bottle of Perrier and a glass. I placed a few sugar cookies on a small porcelain cookie plate shaped like a star, and added a napkin.
When I set them on a small table next to her chair by the fire, she said, “Thank you. I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
I didn’t know quite what to make of that. Had Horace’s hospitalization caused her lack of appetite? If she thought he was trying to get rid of her, more likely her lack of appetite stemmed from worry about him coming home.
“I thought it safe to eat what the caterers had prepared for everyone else. Otherwise I would not have attended Horace’s party.”
She wasn’t going to eat the cookies. Poor woman. I felt sorry for her even though I seriously doubted that Horace planned to harm her.
“Can you help me or are you one of Horace’s adoring minions?”
“If you suspected me of being one of his minions, I don’t believe you would be here.”
She nodded. “Astute. Apparently you do have a brain.”
I let it slide. “Mrs. Scroggins, I have to be honest with you. If you fear for your life, you should go to the police.”
Her mouth twitched downward. “I am seventy years old, but I’m not stupid. If I go to the police and tell them that items in my home aren’t where they’re supposed to be, the police will think I have simply misplaced them.”
“What kind of items?”
“First my medicine. It is kept on the third shelf in the medicine cabinet, yet it moved to the second shelf with Horace’s medicines. Second, the cash that I placed in an envelope for my cleaning woman’s Christmas bonus vanished from my desk. I found the empty envelope later in my nightstand. Third, a mirror that has hung on the left wall of the back hall since I was a child, suddenly hung on the right. Fourth, the ringer on the telephone was turned off so one could not hear it ringing. Fifth, and possibly the most disturbing to me, which leads me to believe that it’s Horace or someone he’s paying, a small statuette of a boy that Horace gave me as a gift has disappeared from our garden.”
“Was it valuable? Perhaps it was stolen.”
She scoffed. “Only sentimental value.”
It was difficult for me to imagine Edith Scroggins being sentimental over anything. I could understand her problem, though. With the exception of the mirror that moved, all of those things could happen due to sheer forgetfulness. My own mother had turned the ringer off her phone by accident. And who had never misplaced something? Putting medicine on the wrong shelf wasn’t a big deal. Losing the money was odd, but Edith could very well have thought she placed money in the envelope but have forgotten to do it. I was quite a bit younger than Edith, but it wasn’t unusual for me to misplace things.
“Did you ask Horace about any of those items?”
“I’m not daft! Of course I did. Horace denied knowledge of any of them.”
“He didn’t notice that the mirror moved? Wasn’t there a spot on the wall where the paint was a different color?”
“We had the painters in last summer. Horace said he couldn’t recall where the mirror had hung. I am correct. I found a photograph from 1985 that showed the mirror hanging on the left.” She poured water into the glass with a trembling hand.
The veil did a good job of hiding her face, but I knew she was aging well, without the ravages of the sun wrinkling her skin. I wouldn’t have put her at seventy. She was right, of course. The police would likely believe exactly what I was thinking—that we all misplace things.
“Why do you think Horace did these things?”
“No one else has access to the house, except for the cleaning woman. She has no reason to wish me ill.”
Unless she acted a great deal nicer toward the cleaning woman than she did to everyone else, I wasn’t convinced that her housekeeper didn’t harbor resentment. Moving things would be a simple enough way to take revenge. “That wasn’t quite what I meant. It sounds like someone is gaslighting you,” I said, in reference to the Hitchcock movie Gaslight, in which a husband tricks his wife to make her think she is going mad. “Why do you think the goal is murder?”
“I’m glad you’re familiar with that film. What other reason would there be? He plans to get me out of the way.”
Oh no. I wished I didn’t know about Brown-Eyed Girl.
Edith paused. I waited quietly to see if she would divulge anything more helpful.
“I own our house and the majority of Scroggins Realty. They belonged to my parents.”
Okay, that was a motive, but I thought Horace had done pretty well for himself financially. “I’m under the impression that Horace could buy another house if that’s what he’s after.”
She folded her hands in her lap. “I suppose that’s true. It wouldn’t be quite as simple to get me out of the business, unless . . . unless he’s trying to make a case that I am incompetent. I don’t know what to do. I hoped you could help me.”
“Do you know Officer Wong?”
Edith frowned. “No.”
I probably shouldn’t mention that she had thrown Wong out with the rest of us after the party, and that Wong was the one who had threatened to get a search warrant for Horace’s office. “She’s very sharp. Maybe you could tell her. I would feel better if the police were on notice.”
“In other words, you won’t help me.”
“Mrs. Scroggins, I don’t know what I can do.” I shrugged. “Unless you stayed here with me, I couldn’t keep an eye on you.” The words had slipped out of my mouth. I hurried to add, “I’m certain you don’t want a babysitter. And I’m not big or strong enough to stop anyone who might mean you harm.”
Her eyes focused on something past my shoulder. “I don’t think I would be comfortable here. Your cat has been staring at me.”
I turned. Mochie sat on the banquette in classic Egyptian cat position, his tail wrapped around his front paws. Alert, yet with superior feline aloofness, he studied Edith. Good kitty! I didn’t think I would be comfortable with Edith staying with me. I hadn’t meant to invite her, merely to make the point that I didn’t know what anyone could do short of a bodyguard.
“Isn’t there someone who might come to stay with you? A family member or old friend?”
“No.” She said it simply, directly, and to the point.
“Maybe you could hire a bodyguard.”
Edith rubbed her temple. “I prefer my own company. I loathe the notion of someone hanging around. And how would I know that person wasn’t on Horace’s payroll?”
“How about a hotel?”
She raised her eyes to meet mine. Her fingers coiled into fists. “May I call on you again if there are further developments? Much to my surprise, I have found it useful to discuss this with someone.”
“Yes, of course”—I turned the tables on her—“but only if you promise to share this information with Officer Wong.”
She rose. “Very well. Thank you for the water.”
I helped her with her coat and showed her to the front door.
“I always liked this house,” she said. “I’m glad you didn’t rip everything out. If one wants a modern house, one ought not buy in Old Town.”
“Would you like me to walk you home?”
“You would do that for me?”
“Of course.” I tamped down the fire to barely burning embers, grabbed a coat from the closet, and slid it on. I seized my keys, locked the door behind us, and strolled along the sidewalk toward Mars and Natasha’s house.
Luis had given up on the giant reindeer. Next door, the lights Gwen had wanted on the dormer windows glowed in the night. It appeared every light inside their house had been turned on. Strains of music reached the street. “The Babineauxs have a lively household,” I observed, making small talk.
“Their household is in a state of permanent chaos.” She sounded angry.
Natasha had gone minimalistic with Christmas lights. They outlined her front door and wound along the railing of her stairs. In pink and orange. They were bright, they were pretty, they were most certainly merry, but they made me want to ask when the circus was coming to town.
Edith stopped to stare at it. “Good lord, it looks like Natasha is advertising a bordello.”
I bit my lip. I could see exactly what she meant. But I didn’t think she intended to be funny.
We didn’t speak much as we turned onto her street. The Christmas decorations on Edith’s home reflected Horace’s love of Scotland. Next to her front door, a giant tartan bow graced a balsam wreath that held pinecones, little black Scottish terriers, and red berries.
She let herself in, said good-night, and closed the door. Locks clanked into place promptly.
I took my time walking home to enjoy the Christmas decorations. Much to my surprise, I found myself feeling sorry for the grouchy old woman. She had alienated everyone, and now that she needed a friend, she had none. It made me appreciate my friends all the more, even Natasha, who, obnoxious as she was, would be the first in line if I needed help.
When I passed the entrance to the alley behind Mars and Natasha’s house, I heard murmuring voices. I slowed and looked, expecting to see them.
Instead, I caught Sugar with a man in what appeared to be a rather personal moment.
CHAPTER NINE
Dear Natasha,
My siblings make a lot more money than I do. Every Christmas they give my parents pricey electronics and antiques. I can’t begin to compete. What’s a fabulous gift that doesn’t cost much?
Broke in Humbug, Arizona
Dear Broke,
Bake a gingerbread house that looks like your parents’ home. Draw a sketch to guide you, bake the walls, and decorate with candy and white icing. You’ll steal the show.
Natasha
His back to me, the man leaned against the wall of Mars and Natasha’s garage. It had been decorated to look like a gingerbread house. Jonah and Twiggy must have done it, because it was far too cute and traditional for Natasha. The two-story building housed the garage, an incredibly opulent crafting workshop for Natasha, and, on top, the apartment that Jonah and Twiggy had rented.
Lights ran across the top of the roof. Icicle lights dripped along the gutters. More white lights lined the corners of the structure and the windows. Red and white candy canes stood on each side of the back door. Lighted mock hard candies dotted the sides of the house. It was darling.
Unfortunately, the bright lights illuminated Sugar with her hand on the chest of someone who looked all too much like Jonah. My heart plummeted for Twiggy. I didn’t know Sugar. Maybe she was the sweetest woman on earth, but anyone with a figure like that who was so willing to show it off was a man magnet.
Jonah’s head bent forward. Sugar looked up at him coyly. They were deep in conversation about something. The shadows probably hid me somewhat. I didn’t think they noticed me at all.
I strolled on quickly. It was none of my business. But it pained me to know what might be in store for Twiggy.
It was still early enough to bake cookies for Gwen’s cookie swap extravaganza as I had planned. I had been experimenting with a chocolate gingersnap cookie that I thought would fit the bill. Normally I would drizzle the tops with chocolate, but that could take some drying time. I decided to bake them anyway and see how it went. If I had enough time, I would add the drizzle.
I turned on an old Christmas CD, tossed a log in the fireplace to get it going again, and preheated the ovens. Eggs, butter, flour, baking powder, salt, chocolate chips, a bottle of homemade vanilla, and ginger went on the island, ready to be used.
But before I began, I phoned Wong. She answered her phone right away. It must have been a slow night for the police in Old Town. I told her about Edith’s visit.
“She agreed to talk to me? Are you sure?” asked Wong.
“Absolutely.”
Wong snorted. “She’s going to expect a Chinese cop. This should be interesting.”
I had done everything I could for Edith. I measured butter and sugar and my Christmas red KitchenAid mixer went into overtime. The recipe was simple enough. Creaming butter and sugar was a cookie basic. I rolled the dough into balls and placed them on a tray covered with parchment paper. In minutes the first baking sheets slid into my ovens. Only one hundred twenty-six more to go.
I mixed ingredients for the next batch, thinking about Edith and Horace. I found it unfathomable that someone as kind as Horace would play pranks on his wife to scare her. As far as I knew, Edith lived a fairly solitary life. Why would anyone want to make her think she was losing her mind?
I shook my head, removed the baked cookies, and placed more trays in the ovens. That was preposterous. Most likely, Edith was just getting forgetful. Maybe the painters moved the mirror last summer when they painted. Maybe the little statuette broke, and Horace threw it out. There were a million perfectly reasonable explanations.
Then why did it worry me? I used a specially thin cookie spatula to lift baked cookies off the parchment paper and place them on racks to cool. The cookies only baked for twelve minutes. With fifteen cookies on each baking sheet, the whole process was going much faster than I had expected.
I stopped cold. Surely Edith hadn’t planned all this. Could she have weakened the balcony in the hope that her husband would fall? Could she have made up the story about her medicine being on the wrong shelf as a cover for sneaking extra blood thinner into his food?
Scratching my forehead, I sat down in the chair next to the fire. It was almost too clever. Edith could easily move anything around and pretend to be afraid. Why would she have chosen to speak to me today? Was I part of her plan to create an alibi? The timer went off again. I removed the baked cookies and slid another batch into the oven.
Suddenly, I was extremely glad that I had called Wong. Something strange was happening with the Scrogginses. I just didn’t know which one might be trying to get rid of the other one.
The scents of vanilla and ginger wafted through the air from the cooling cookies. I prepared two more trays for the oven and considered making myself a drink.
Mochie lifted his head and focused on the kitchen door as though he expected someone to arrive.
Wong and Nina showed up less than a minute later. Frigid night air blew through the kitchen when they bolted inside.
“When did it get so cold?” asked Nina.
“I was just getting ready to make some hot cider.”
Wong sniffed and surveyed my production line. “Ginger? Wow, but that’s a lot of cookies.”
“I’m almost done. They’re for a cookie swap. I just need to drizzle chocolate over them to make them pretty. I don’t suppose you two would like to taste them to be sure they’re edible?”
Nina and Wong each grabbed a cookie before removing their coats.
Nina groaned with satisfaction. “Umm. Perfect for a cold night. And it’s so Christmasy in here already.” She slung their coats on the banquette, picked up Mochie, and nestled into a fireside chair with him on her lap.
Wong drummed her fingertips on the island. “That Mrs. Scroggins is a piece of work.”
I poured melted chocolate into an icing bag with a small round frosting tip and let the chocolate fall onto the cookies in a zigzag pattern. “Did you ever get a search warrant for Horace’s office and have a look at the balcony?”
Wong smiled, her round cheeks puffing up. “Wasn’t necessary. I sent the building inspector around to have a look. I just happened to be there on the sidewalk when he arrived.” She flipped her hand casually.
Nina and I giggled at her planned coincidence.
“The railing had rotted through. Even I could see that it hadn’t been tampered with.”
“And I was so sure that wicked Mrs. Scroggins was trying to do her sweet husband in. Did you tell Wong about Brown-Eyed Girl?” asked Nina.
I glared at Nina for a moment, frustrated that she’d so readily revealed Horace’s private letter. On the other hand, given what Edith had told me, Wong probably should know. I suspected she could keep a secret better than blabbermouth Nina.
While Nina told Wong all about Brown-Eyed Girl, I poured apple cider into a pot to heat and tossed in two sticks of cinnamon, juicy orange slices, a pinch of cloves, and a teeny bit of nutmeg.
Wong appeared incredulous. “That’s so sweet. And so sad. I can’t believe he kept the letter all those years.”
I added chocolate to the last tray of cookies. When I was finished, I turned in a circle, looking for any I might have missed. There wasn’t a square inch of countertop that wasn’t covered with cookies. No wonder Wong had been impressed.
I poured the cider into footed glass mugs and garnished them with orange slices. After handing them to my friends, I sat down and relaxed. “So what did Edith say?”
Diva Wraps It Up, The Page 7