“Hmm. Maybe paid rabble rousers?”
“I thought of that, too. Do you think Vernon Parks might have been involved?”
“It’s a possibility. Probably no way to find out now. If something happens again, one of us should get right on it.” Lyssa negotiated a curve at a noticeably slower speed than usual, and Callie wondered if it was in consideration of her recent scare. She appreciated not having the urge to push the imaginary brake on her side of the car.
They passed a sign for Easton. “Ah,” Lyssa said, “we’re close. What’s it like? Anything like Mapleton and the Cove?”
“All I know is what I’ve skimmed through on the internet. It’s bigger than Mapleton and older, dating back to 1711. A few Maryland governors are buried there. And it claims to be the eighth-best small town in America.”
“Good for them. If they have a good bookstore or two, I’ll be sold on it. Okay, here we are,” Lyssa said, driving into the town and glancing around. “Pretty.”
“It is,” Callie agreed. “That must be the courthouse.” She pointed toward an impressive Georgian-style building. “Lots of these buildings look historic. I’d love to come back for a tour sometime.”
Lyssa’s GPS told her to turn left in a quarter mile, which would eventually take them to the realty office of Douglas Moore. After that, she made a right turn, then pulled up in front of a red brick-fronted building. It housed several businesses, and one multipaned window on the ground floor announced Moore Realty on an Old English-styled, black-lettered sign.
“Found it!” Lyssa announced, and Callie unbuckled and climbed out.
They entered the realty office to see three desks spread about, but only one woman seated at any of them.
“Welcome to Moore Realty,” she said, setting aside a thick folder. “What can I do for you?”
“Hi,” Callie said. “We have an appointment with Doug Moore.” She gave Lyssa’s name and looked around. “Is he here?”
The fiftyish woman, who wore a gray jacket and skirt, frowned a little worriedly. “Not at the moment. But let me find him. Please have a seat.” She indicated two chairs next to a rack of brochures near the front, then got up from her desk with her cell phone and walked toward the back. Though she kept her voice low, Callie picked up that Douglas Moore had forgotten about their appointment but would hurry on over.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman said. “Mr. Moore had a small emergency to attend to. But he’ll be here shortly. In the meantime, I’ll be happy to get you started, if that’s all right. I’m Gayle Hawkins.”
“Lyssa Hammond,” Lyssa said, extending her hand. “And my friend, Callie Reed. “I hope we aren’t pulling Mr. Moore away from something terribly important. But he was recommended to me by a friend.”
“Oh, no,” Ms. Hawkins protested. “It wasn’t anything major. It just, um, needed to be seen to. Mr. Moore will be most happy to work with you, as soon as he gets here. Now, what exactly are you looking for?” She waved them over to her desk and pulled chairs over in front of it for them.
“Well,” Lyssa began, then launched into a broad description of her ideal house, starting with a slate, or perhaps cedar, roof and working its way through multiple bedrooms, or maybe one very large master suite with a single guest room, on down to open-plan living areas or possibly a cozier closed-off-style huge kitchen, sun room (or not), and finished basement.
“I see,” Ms. Hawkins said, looking very much like she didn’t. “And your price range?”
Lyssa threw out numbers that seemed reasonable to Callie, at least for a house somewhere in the middle of Lyssa’s supposed wish list. Maybe with a smaller kitchen. Ms. Hawkins asked about location preferences and discussed the pros and cons of a few with Lyssa. Waterfront? Close to shopping and restaurants? Wooded property? She had just started pulling up listings on her computer when the door burst open and a heavyset man with a fringe of gray hair edging his otherwise bald head hurried in while pulling on a tweed jacket.
“Oh, good, you’re here!” Ms. Hawkins said, standing up. She introduced a flustered and red-faced Douglas Moore to Lyssa and Callie, adding that Lyssa was the prospective client.
“Please accept my apologies,” he said, shaking their hands. “One of those days,” he explained vaguely.
Callie could see a resemblance to Jerry Moore, though Douglas looked several years older. His manner was milder, at least at the moment. He thanked Gayle Hawkins nicely for stepping in for him, and she looked happy to have done so, which showed a good working relationship between them.
Moore looked over his colleague’s notes and asked a couple of questions as he settled himself in, seeming to quickly catch up on things to that point. But then he turned to Callie and asked, “Were you hoping to move to Easton soon, Ms. Hammond?”
“No, Doug, this is Ms. Hammond.” Ms. Hawkins, who had lingered nearby, gestured toward Lyssa.
“Right,” Lyssa said. “And please call me Lyssa. I’m in no hurry to move, but I’m open to buying if there’s something available that I can’t resist. If not, I’m okay with waiting.”
“I see. And, uh, I also see you have a fairly wide range of preferences on your wish list.”
Which was putting it mildly, Callie thought.
“I’m not really picky,” Lyssa said. “I like a lot of styles and sizes. I’ll know the right house when I see it, but I didn’t want to miss it by narrowing things down too much.”
“Okaaay,” Moore said. “Well, we can start by showing you what’s on the market right now.” He continued what Gayle Hawkins had started, pulling up listings on the computer, then turned the monitor toward Lyssa. His discussion of each property showed a sharp understanding of real estate, especially once they got into the finances. In addition, he explained points about loans and mortgages so clearly that Callie, who’d never gotten into that because of her good fortune of inheriting from Aunt Mel, was able to easily follow.
At one point, when Moore offered coffee and got up to make it on the nearby office Keurig, Lyssa brought up Keepsake Cove. “I’ve been visiting there. A nice place, normally, but a lot’s been going on lately.”
“Keepsake Cove? Yes, my brother has a place there.” Doug frowned as he made a second coffee. “It was his wife who was recently killed. You may have heard about it.”
“Oh, gosh! Moore!” Lyssa said. “I should have connected the name. I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head. “Moore is a common name. He was with me when they told him about it,” he said quietly.
“That was yesterday morning, after it happened?” Callie asked.
“Yes,” he said, setting the mugs before each of them. “Tuesday morning.”
“I think you mean Wednesday, right?” Callie said.
Moore looked confused for a moment, then gave a slight laugh. “Wednesday, yes. So much has been happening. Hard to keep the days straight. Well, I didn’t mean to bring that all up.” He rubbed his hands briskly. “Shall we get back to work?”
He discussed more properties with Lyssa, who continued to show appreciation of everything but particular interest in nothing, though to Moore’s credit he seemed perfectly understanding and fine with that. They finally ended with Lyssa thanking him profusely for the great overview he’d given of available properties and apologizing for not picking any to look into further.
“Not at all, not at all,” he assured her. “No need to rush into this, especially since you’re in no hurry to buy. Think over what you’ve seen tonight.” He gave her the link to study them online herself. “You can get back to me if you have any questions or if you’d like to go see a few. I’ll be here all day tomorrow and Saturday—”
“Not Saturday,” Gayle Hawkins called from another desk. “Remember the open house?”
“Open house?” Moore pulled up a calendar and peered at it. “That’s this Saturday? Oh, dear. Well,” he said to Lyssa, “I’ll be
here tomorrow and next week. You can always leave a message, of course … ”
“Of course.” Lyssa stood, along with Callie, and they all three shook hands, Lyssa thanking him again.
When they were back in her car, Lyssa said, “I noticed a restaurant a couple of blocks back. Want to grab something to eat?”
Callie agreed and Lyssa made a U-turn to get to a cozy-looking café with electric candles in the window. Hunger-stirring aromas greeted them as they entered. A friendly hostess seated them, asking as she handed them menus, “Visiting our area?”
“Yes,” Lyssa said. “With a look to possibly buying and settling in.”
“Oh, lovely,” the woman said. “If you’re looking for a realtor, Doug Moore’s office is just down the street. Good at his job and a super nice person to deal with. As a matter of fact,” she said, stepping back, “he dined with us tonight, though he left in a hurry without really finishing. Something must have come up.” She smiled indulgently. “He can be just a bit forgetful.”
Twenty-Eight
So, what did you think of Jerry Moore’s alibi?” Lyssa asked as she drove them back to Keepsake Cove. They’d avoided the subject during dinner in the small, quiet restaurant where conversations could easily be overheard.
“Shaky,” Callie said. “As shaky as Douglas Moore’s memory. He might have been fuzzy about exactly when his brother showed up and been convinced by Jerry that it was earlier in the evening than it actually was by the time police arrived.”
“‘Might,’” Lyssa said. “The operative word, unfortunately. Do we know Renata Moore’s time of death?”
“Brian got it from his police deputy friend that it was between ten o’clock and midnight, Tuesday night.”
“So my book event was over and most everyone had cleared out of the park at least by nine, right? Renata had gone home to change clothes for her planned trip to the estate sale.”
“Jack Tate, one of the volunteers, saw Jerry leaving after packing up his sound system.” Callie said. “And the next morning at the park, I heard Jerry tell police he had driven directly to his brother’s, since he believed Renata was on her way to Pennsylvania.”
“So, Easton is about half an hour’s drive from Keepsake Cove. If he went directly, he has an alibi for the time of the murder.”
“If Douglas was aware of and accurately remembered the time of Jerry’s arrival.”
Lyssa nodded. “Nice man, Douglas. I feel a little bad about dragging him away from his dinner for nothing. I know one or two people to recommend him to as a realtor, but I’ll warn them to confirm any appointments more than once.” She negotiated a turn. “Getting back to the murders—Dorothy, you know, could have slipped out of her cottage once her cousin Jane was asleep, killed Renata, and been back within minutes.”
“But would she?” Callie asked. “The timing works, but do you see Dorothy Ashby stabbing anyone with an old pair of scissors? I really don’t. Plus, how would she have lured Renata to the park?”
“Yes, that’s a sticking point. Why would Renata go alone to meet up with Dorothy, who she knows has a grudge against her? As far as Dorothy stabbing anyone, I’m sorry, but I don’t put it past anyone if they’re angry enough. Dorothy may look frail, but you’d be surprised what adrenaline can do for a person. That’s not to say I believe she did. I’m just saying that’s how the police likely are looking at it. Besides, she has that connection to both Cliff Ashby and Renata. She’d gain control of a valuable inn and get rid of a difficult husband, and with Renata she’d finally strike back against a lifelong enemy.”
Callie fell silent, unable to refute Lyssa’s points, though she wasn’t happy with them. She stayed that way, mulling over things, until Lyssa reached Keepsake Cove. As they traveled down the street and neared Stitches Thru Time, Callie turned to look at the darkened shop. “Stop!”
Lyssa slammed on her brakes, fortunately with no one behind her. “What?”
“Look at Dorothy’s window,” Callie said. “Somebody’s thrown eggs against it.”
“Oh, crap!”
Just what Callie felt like. The mob reaction she’d feared was starting to take hold. What next? Torch-bearing, rock-hurling crowds?
They moved on, and as Lyssa pulled up in front of House of Melody, Callie half expected to see eggs on her windows as well, or worse. She, after all, had been outspoken about her belief in Dorothy’s innocence. Who knew how far blind retaliation would reach? She thanked Lyssa for driving to Easton and glumly bid her good night
“Don’t worry about the egg-tossing idiots,” Lyssa said. “They’ll be the ones with egg on their face once this is over.”
Callie smiled. “Hope so.”
“And it might just be kids, you know.”
That didn’t cheer Callie. “If so, it would be kids who picked up the attitude from the adults around them.” She climbed out of the car with a weak farewell gesture and headed down the side path to her cottage. When her motion sensor lights flicked on, she heard Lyssa’s Corvette drive off.
As she slipped her key into the lock, something white at the base of the door caught Callie’s eye. She bent down to pick up a white envelope with Callie Reed hand-printed on the front. Nothing else. She frowned. That method of delivery, whatever the envelope contained, was immediately worrisome. Friends didn’t communicate in this digital age by leaving notes at doors. They texted, emailed, or called. She stared at the piece for several moments before opening her door and stepping in. The envelope was sealed, but just barely at the tip of its flap. Setting down her keys and purse, Callie tore it open, then pulled out a single sheet of paper that bore a brief, hand-printed message:
Lyssa Hammond isn’t who she says she is. She’s Alissa Hanson—MURDERER! Cliff Ashby knew and he died. Who else?
It wasn’t signed, of course. Callie’s first impulse was to crumple it up and throw it away. Anonymous letters were evil attempts to stir up trouble and nothing else. They couldn’t be believed.
But the message had wormed its way into her head.
As she hung up her jacket and gave Jagger a treat, the words repeated themselves in a continuous loop. Alissa Hanson. Murderer. Who else? Finally she went up to the guest room and woke up the laptop sitting on the small desk there. She typed in Alissa Hanson, which pulled up several pages. She clicked on a few listings that took her to Facebook pages. These Alissa Hansons were obviously not Lyssa, from their photos. She ruled out those who had a cat or flower for their profile photos if their locations or other information didn’t work. An Alissa Hanson posing with multiple grandkids was an instant no. Checking her search list again, Callie saw that nothing had popped up that connected any Alissa Hanson to a murder, so she gave up.
She was ready to discard the letter a second time until she remembered the cookout at Annie’s and Mike’s. Annie, interested in Lyssa’s writing career, had asked about her earlier life, curious if she’d found instant writing success or if she’d had to earn a living in other ways while scribbling late at night. Lyssa’s evasiveness had nudged Callie to do an internet search on her, but it had turned up little beyond the author’s public persona. At the time, she’d thought nothing of it, attributing it to an understandable need for privacy. But now it could be taken as a need for secrecy. Callie shook her head. If she expected answers, the only thing left was to ask Lyssa herself. Unsure if she wanted to do that, she logged off and closed the laptop. She decided to sleep on it. If she could, in fact, sleep.
The next morning, Callie still hadn’t made up her mind. She dealt with her few customers in a distracted way, her thoughts on the lingering dilemma. Delia had stopped in, upset over the egg-throwing incident at Dorothy’s shop, which Callie had nearly forgotten, so absorbed had she been in her latest problem. She needed to dredge up the horror she’d felt at the sight of the windows, which was still there but had been pushed back by that disturbing anonymous letter.
“I’m on my way out of town. Have to run back to my house,” she announced brightly as she came in. “Another renovation problem to discuss. By the way, I saw a couple of people cleaning off Dorothy’s windows for her as I drove by.”
“Good to hear,” Callie said.
“Anyway, I should be back sometime tomorrow, by the latest. But call me if something comes up, okay?”
Callie paused. “Actually, something did come up.”
“Oh?’
Callie walked back to her counter and reached to the lower shelf where she’d tucked the note. “I found this on my doorstep last night.” She handed it to Lyssa and watched as she read it. When the author’s face blanched, Callie had her answer.
“Who … who wrote this?”
“I don’t know. Is it true? I mean about you being Alissa Hanson?”
“It is.” Lyssa’s answer was barely above a whisper.
“But it calls you a murderer.”
“That’s not true.” Lyssa had tears in her eyes. “Some people thought it was. It was a long time ago. I’d rather not go into it.” She said the last part firmly, lifting her chin slightly with glistening eyes.
Callie saw that she meant it. But she had to ask. “The note said that Cliff Ashby knew. Is that right?”
Lyssa looked Callie in the eye. “He wasn’t blackmailing me, if that’s what you’re wondering. Maybe he knew and maybe he was planning to, but I promise you it wouldn’t have worked. What happened is not something I talk about, and I choose to write as Lyssa Hammond partly to keep that horrible incident from coming up over and over. But if it had, I would have admitted it. It might have lost me some readers, but I could live with that. I never would have caved to blackmail. Never.”
Or killed to prevent it? Callie didn’t say it, and she didn’t think she believed it, but the question was there. And Lyssa knew it.
A Vintage Death Page 19