Wreath of Deception

by Mary Ellen Hughes

  “That was my point, exactly. Unfortunately, my strongest defense was that I’d never seen Kyle before he showed up for the clown gig. That was recently blown away by his Uncle Niles, who claims I met Kyle several times up in New York when I placed my jewelry at Niles’ shop. Although I have no memory, whatsoever, of those meetings.” Jo took a bite of her roll-up.

  “Ah, Uncle Niles,” Rafe said. “I remember him from the memorial service. He struck me as an oily character.”

  Jo dabbed a paper napkin at her mouth as Bert’s special sauce threatened to dribble down her chin. “That’s how I’d describe him too. We had some problems, businesswise, in the past. He may be deliberately trying to hurt me because of that.”

  Rafe took a few swallows from his Coke can. “I’ll be going up to New York tomorrow. I’ve got an opportunity to pick up a few bucks doing a commercial voice-over. How about I check on Uncle Niles with a few people I know in that area, maybe I could even stop in and talk to him myself? He wasn’t grieving too much to give me his business card during the service.”

  “You’d go to that trouble?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “It’s just, well, I mean, that would be great if you can. I’d really appreciate it.”

  Rafe smiled. “Don’t expect too much. But I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  Jo smiled back. “I’m really sorry about the playhouse. I hope you can pull it back together.”

  “We’ll see. Maybe I can put the squeeze on a few major contributors.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard there have been things in the past like the Thespian Ball to raise money.”

  “Right. All the crème de la crème of Abbotsville show up to eat caviar and show off their new gowns for the cause.”

  “But it does raise money, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’d rather have a root canal than suffer through those balls?”

  Rafe rubbed at his face. “I’d skip the anesthesia to not have to go to one of them. They’re excruciating.”

  “They can’t be that bad, can they? After all, everyone there is interested, to some extent, in the theater, so you get to talk about your favorite subject, don’t you?”

  “They’re interested, all right. And each one wants to tell you how you should do it. Or has a relative who’s written an “absolutely wonderful” play about Millard Fillmore’s early life they want you to look at. Our beloved state senator tried to impress upon me the importance of our plays having a message – like, say, battling roadside litter, or wearing bike helmets.”

  Jo grinned. “Surely not that bad.”

  “Nearly.”

  “What is Alden Patterson like?” Jo asked. “I’ve only met his wife.”

  Rafe shrugged. “Typical politician, I guess. Bright enough, ambitious, hopeful of living off the taxpayers as our governor, someday. Has all the necessary requirements, including the beautiful, adoring wife.”

  Jo thought about the scrapbook Deirdre had chosen to make, highlighting Alden’s career. That certainly fit in with Rafe’s impression.

  Jo heard a tapping noise and looked to the front window. There stood Loralee waving happily, her ever-present outsized tote on her arm. “Hi, Jo,” she called, her voice muffled by the glass. “See you tonight?”

  Jo waved back, nodding.

  “There’s another one of my Thespian Ball terrors,” Rafe said, watching Loralee move on.

  “That sweet lady? Why?”

  “Exactly for that sweetness. She oozes it. Puts me in danger of Type 2 diabetes every time she comes near.”

  “Oh, come now,” Jo laughed.

  “And she always shows up with the other one, the tall woman with grey hair.”

  “Ina Mae?” Jo guessed right away, since she rarely saw one without the other.

  He nodded. “Two odd ducks, but between them I don’t think they miss a thing going on. Let slip a four-letter word in private across the room and there one of them is, looking at you like she’s just added that to her book of “Everything that’s wrong with Rafe Rulenski.”

  “Like that would really worry you?”

  “Well, not normally, of course. But I can see Ms. Sweetness there, gently swaying the vote of Betty Big-bucks who can’t decide between writing a check for the playhouse or a check to the Orphans’ Fund.”

  “Those wretched orphans, grabbing all that money that should properly go to the arts.”

  “Then the tall one,” Rafe went on, ignoring her as he worked up steam, “she comes to the balls supposedly to support the playhouse, but she has her own agendas, like, having kids in our plays? Forget about it. Child exploitation! Plus, they might miss out on five minutes of homework time. And animals? I know it was her that sent the animal rights people to idiotically stop us from having a live parrot on stage once. Claimed the lights were too hot for the bird. We had to get a stuffed one, and have someone wiggle it and make cawing noises every once in a while to look alive.” Rafe punched his sandwich wrappings into a tight ball.

  Jo had to press her water bottle to her lips to keep from laughing over the image of the parrot-wiggler. Was he credited in the playbook as such, she wondered? Jason Krabable – Parrot Shaker. As far as Ina Mae, Jo knew she volunteered at the local SPCA. And she did have strong opinions – about animals, children, and just about everything else.

  “I can see that life as director of the Abbotsville Playhouse is not an easy one, Rafe. Here you are, trying to entertain the people, and you’re expected to actually deal with them.”

  Rafe looked at her, still scowling from his rant, but then relaxed into a sly grin. “And I usually can deal with them, ultimately. That’s one of the advantages of theatrical training. While faced with imbeciles, one can look enthralled when required. It’s just that it’s exhausting.” Rafe rubbed at his eyes, then looked back at Jo. “But I’ll twist those arms. The Abbotsville Playhouse isn’t down yet, don’t you worry.”

  “Good. My friend Carrie's son, Charlie Brenner, will be one of the many who are glad to hear that. Charlie was really intrigued by the lights and sound workings before things came to a stop.”

  Rafe almost looked like he knew who Jo was talking about, and nodded, obviously not one to keep track of the “little people.” Another example of the invisibility Charlie had remarked on. Would Charlie be back, though, if the playhouse did get up and running? From what Carrie had said, Dan had not given an inch along that line, which did not bode well for the father and son relationship.

  Jo glanced at her watch. “Speaking of my friend, it’s time for me to relieve her at the shop.” She gathered up her sandwich wrappings and dropped them in a nearby trash container. Rafe did the same, and walked out with her. They parted on the sidewalk, Jo wishing him good luck in New York, and he accepting it.

  As she walked to her car, Jo mulled over Rafe’s fairly unique impressions of people. His statement about actors and their ability to pretend stuck with her, making her wonder. If someone had an honest face, did she easily accept everything they said as fact? Did she believe someone was innocent simply because they acted sincere?

  She gave herself a shake. After all, she wasn’t born yesterday. She’d dealt with many a crafty businessman, and she was confident in her abilities to read people. There was, however, the little matter of that anonymous letter sent to Morgan.

  Reaching her car, Jo noticed that the scratches in its paint seemed to glow in the bright, mid-day sun. As if on cue, the stitches in her scalp began to throb and a wave of nausea fluttered through her stomach. Were they reminders of the need for caution in this murderer's pursuit?

  More likely, Jo thought, they were reminders of the need to drive carefully, though she’d definitely aim for both. She put the Toyota in gear, and headed for the shop, wondering when all her questions would finally have answers.

  CHAPTER 26

  “I’m here,” Jo called out as she walked through the door into an empty Jo’s Craft Corner.


  “I’m here too,” Carrie’s voice sailed from the bathroom. “Be right out.”

  “Take your time.” Jo stashed her pocketbook on the shelf beneath the cash register and glanced at the receipts. Carrie had made a few sales that morning, mainly from the knitting supplies. The knitters of Abbotsville seemed to have zeroed in on the times she would be available at the shop with her expert advice. Jo also saw a message from Betsy Davis, the basket weaver scheduled for a table at the country club craft show. It gave only the woman’s phone number, with no indication of the reason for the call. Jo hoped she wasn’t backing out. At this late date it would be impossible to find a replacement.

  She heard the bathroom door open and called out to Carrie, “Did Betsy say what she needed to talk with me about?”

  “No, only that you could reach her until two.”

  Something in Carrie’s voice didn’t sound right, and Jo looked up. Her friend’s eyes were red-rimmed.

  “Carrie, what’s wrong?”

  Carrie shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it all with me to work. But when things slowed down, I couldn’t help thinking about it. Charlie and Dan had a big fight last night.”

  “Oh-oh. About the playhouse?”

  “It was, but I doubt either of them would admit it. They’d insist it was all about the lawn, which Charlie didn’t mow like he was supposed to. He claimed that was because it was still too wet from the rain we had a couple nights ago. Dan thought that was just a crappy excuse and told him so. Then Charlie retaliated by saying Dan thought everything Charlie decided was crappy, and Dan told him not to speak to him in that tone, and, and, it just got worse after that.” Carrie teared up, and Jo reached out to give her a hug.

  “They’ll both feel bad about it once they simmer down, Carrie.”

  “I didn’t see any signs of that this morning. Charlie stomped off to school early, without breakfast. And Dan wouldn’t talk about it at all with me, just glared at his fried eggs as he shoveled them into his mouth, then washed them down with hot coffee. He’ll probably have indigestion all day and blame it on Charlie.”

  “Men can be so stubborn. I’m sorry you got caught in the middle.”

  Carrie sighed. “That’s it. I’m in the middle, but I can’t help if neither of them will talk to me. Ah, well.” Carrie took a final bracing sniff. “Best I get going. I’ve got a bunch of errands to run. If I keep busy maybe a solution to all this will pop in my head.”

  “I’m sure it will all work out.” Jo watched as Carrie gathered her things and left with a wan smile. Though she’d tried to be upbeat for Carrie’s sake, Jo had a sinking feeling about this. The breach between father and son had been developing for quite a while as each pulled in their separate directions, and Jo hadn’t a clue how to repair it.

  With a sigh, she reached for the slip with Betsy Davis’s phone number and punched it in. Betsy’s answering machine picked up, belying the basket weaver’s supposed availability until two. Frustrated, Jo left her message, and hung up, feeling highly annoyed. It wasn’t the uncompleted call that really bothered her, though, just as Charlie’s and Dan’s fight wasn’t about unmown grass. In addition to concern for the family that meant so much to her, Jo had the ongoing escalation of Russ Morgan’s insinuations weighing on her, plus the recently added suspicions of just about everyone she knew in Abbotsville.

  That last part was something she was going to have to work through. It made no sense to mistrust everyone, when in actuality only one person must be lying to her. The trouble was, at this point she couldn’t say who that was. Jo began to wish that she’d never stayed to share lunch with Rafe. His negativity had managed to rub off on her, disrupting what she had hoped would be a clear-cut track to the truth. That track now appeared more like a maze through tall grass, where every new turn seemed to erase the path behind, and present a fresh set of hidden problems up ahead.

  The door jingled, and Jo pushed aside her depressing thoughts to greet her customer. No matter what her troubles, she still needed to earn a living, or she’d end up being the hungriest, unemployed, homeless murder suspect in Abbotsville.

  <><><>

  Mindy Blevins was the first to arrive for the scrapbooking workshop. “Cute,” she said, indicating Jo’s camouflaging baseball cap.

  “Glad you like it. You’ll be seeing a lot of it until my hair evens out.”

  Mindy looked closer at Jo’s bruises. “They’re starting to fade. How do they feel?”

  “Not bad. I’ve stopped the prescription pain pills altogether.”

  Mindy took her place at the worktable as Deirdre walked in. When Deirdre did a double take, Jo realized they hadn't seen one another since the accident. Deirdre peppered Jo with concerned questions on her condition but made no reference, of course, to their phone discussion of the previous night. Ina Mae and Loralee were the last to arrive, Loralee carrying a plate of homemade pineapple squares.

  “They’re mostly for you, Jo, a little treat for your convalescence, but I made extra for everyone to share tonight.” Jo thanked her gratefully, remembering that she hadn’t eaten since her lunch with Rafe. The others moaned with delight over the frosted pastries, and debated their possible caloric content.

  “Are you sure you’re up to running this workshop tonight?” Ina Mae asked quietly, her eyes scrutinizing Jo’s face. Jo assured her she was, though in truth she could feel fatigue starting to set in. And though she’d stopped taking the strong prescription pain pills, she thought a Tylenol or Advil wouldn’t be a bad idea.

  However, she managed to put on a positive smile. “How’s everyone’s project coming along?” she asked as they spread out their photos and tools. She got four varieties of responses from “wonderful” to “I need a bit of help”.

  Loralee’s was the last, and Jo went over to look at her pages. Loralee was putting together a scrapbook for a five year-old granddaughter who lived in Seattle and had spent a week visiting during the summer. Loralee wanted the scrapbook to be a source of special memories of the visit, and planned to send it to the granddaughter at Christmas.

  A quick glance at what Loralee had done so far brought to mind Rafe Rulenski’s complaint of Loralee as a diabetes inducer, since the pages nearly dripped with cotton-candy pinks and gossamer fluff. Jo knew Loralee’s granddaughter was named Caitlin, but if her name had been Tinkerbell, or maybe Barbie, the pages would fit her just as well.

  “I want to create a page for our day at the beach in Ocean City. But I can’t think where to start,” Loralee said.

  Jo quickly pulled out some sheets of blue paper, with the idea of toning down some of the intense pinkness of the scrapbook. “How about one of these for background,” she suggested, and when Loralee pursed her lips, Jo pointed out, “it will coordinate with the blue in your ocean shots. Then,” Jo grabbed some red paper, “you could frame your shots with this to pick up the red in your beach umbrella.”

  Loralee played with it for a bit, placing a few photos over Jo’s papers. “It’s very nice,” she said, “but I wonder if it might also be good to pick up the pink from Caitlin’s swim suit?”

  “That would work,” Jo agreed. After all, it was Loralee’s scrapbook. She offered a few starfish and sand bucket prints to further decorate the page, and moved on, leaving Loralee to create to her own taste.

  “How is your book doing, Deirdre?” she asked.

  “Oh, it’s coming along great. This is so much fun.” Deirdre flipped to her previous page to show Jo, and Jo leaned over to see photos of two Afghan hounds, in various poses.

  “Well, aren’t those beautiful dogs,” Jo said, somewhat surprised.

  Mindy leaned over to see. “They’re gorgeous. But I thought your scrapbook was supposed to be about your husband.”

  “It is! And Caesar and Max are part of Alden’s family.” Deirdre beamed at the dog’s pictures, obviously as proud of them as Mindy was of her twins. Mindy shot a look to Jo, and Jo remembered how Mindy once told them about Alden Pa
tterson’s minimal tolerance of his wife’s dogs. Jo made a tiny shrug, and Mindy smiled and turned away.

  “Jo, did you ever get to see that tennis person?” Ina Mae asked. “Genna’s roommate?”

  All the faces at the table turned once again in Jo’s direction.

  “Yes, I talked with Bethanne. She seems quite broken up over what happened to Genna.”

  “Did she have any theory on what happened?”

  “She couldn’t believe it was anything but an accident. Nor could she accept the possibility that someone may have killed Genna while under the impression it was her.”

  Ina Mae nodded. “A difficult concept for anyone.”

  “I don’t know,” Loralee said, her scissors poised halfway through a shimmery sheet of pink. “I mean, about Genna not being the intended one. I’m still very suspicious of Pete, Genna’s boyfriend.”

  “I am too, absolutely,” Deirdre agreed. “That violent temper of his, and all.”

  “Bethanne told me Pete has been devastated. She doesn’t have any suspicion that his grief isn’t genuine, or that he could have done anything to harm Genna.”

  “Well, I still say, “Deirdre insisted, jabbing her calligraphy pen about for emphasis, “that Pete – oh!” Deirdre’s pen caught an open bottle of green ink next to her, knocking it over. She quickly righted it, then grabbed for the paper towels Jo always kept handy, and frantically blotted.

  Mindy helped, after first whisking her own materials out of the way of the creeping spill. “Be careful,” Mindy warned Deirdre, “don’t get ink on your ring!”

  Jo hadn’t noticed Deirdre’s ring, and, as they all pitched in to change the worktable’s protective papers she glanced at it. Worn on her right hand, it was a lovely and unusual piece.

  “Is that new,” Jo asked. “It’s beautiful.”