Murder Between the Covers

by Maddie Cochere

  “What’s with all the information on the mayor? And why do you have him as a suspect in Meredith’s murder?”

  “I’m doing some digging around, because I don’t think he’s being honest about who he is and where he’s from. No one knows anything about him, and he won his election in a landslide. For all we know, he could be a serial killer.”

  He smiled and pulled me to him for a kiss. “You know, you’re really beautiful when you talk shop. Your eyes shine. Do you really think the mayor is a murderer?”

  “No, but he was in the bookstore right after Meredith was murdered. It could have been him going out the back door.”

  “Motive?”

  I sighed and stepped back. “There isn’t any. He had no reason to kill her. But Peggy did, and she fled the state. I’d be surprised if Sergeant Rorski came to any conclusion other than that Peggy did it.”

  He pulled me back to him for another kiss. “I know you don’t want to write a report, but I appreciate how hard you work, and your information will be a big help to the department.”

  I pushed him away. “I know. Let’s get this over with. I’ll play kissy-face with you when we get back.

  A frown crossed his face.

  “What? You don’t want to play kissy-face?”

  “The map is down here, isn’t it?”

  “I can’t tell you. Don’t ask me.”

  “Jo, I don’t care that you have the map. At least not yet. But now that Pepper and Kelly and four men on the force besides me know you have it, it won’t be long before someone slips and word gets out. Your life could be in real danger. And we need to do something to make the house more secure, too, because you know someone will come in here and tear the place apart looking for the map.”

  My heart sank. He was right. The map was fine hidden in the wall when only Keith and I knew about it, but once word of it got out, things could get ugly.

  “What are we doing on Saturday?” I asked.

  “We’re spending the day at the flea market helping Estelle and Roger with their grand opening. Did you forget?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes. No. Sort of. I think about it every now and then, but that it’s the day after tomorrow has really snuck up on me. I have a few things I want to follow up on tomorrow, and then why don’t we take the map to Sergeant Rorski Saturday morning before the opening. We’ll give it to him and let him worry about its safety.”

  “I think that’s a good idea. Maybe we can get Jackie to put something in the paper that a map has been found and given to the police department for safekeeping.” He smiled. “Sarge will have a fit when he sees we’re dumping it off on him.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. I didn’t want to torture the man, but who else would we give it to?

  “Let’s go,” I said. “You take the cruiser, and I’ll drive my truck. That way, we’ll have a way home.”

  ~ ~ ~

  I was in my murder room space. My eyes were heavy, and I was exhausted.

  It had taken nearly an hour to write all my information for Sergeant Rorski, even though I had provided most of it in bullet points. Glenn had fallen asleep beside me with his head on the table. There had been no kissing or anything else when we returned home. He was asleep the minute his head hit the pillow.

  I looked at the clock on the wall above my desk. I’d have to wake him for work in an hour, and then I was going to climb into bed and watch Christmas movies until I fell asleep.

  I hadn’t yet talked with Arnie to let him know what was going on and that I hadn’t compromised the investigation into the mayor. The only thing I put in my report was that the mayor came into the bookstore immediately after I found Meredith. Anything else I could have written about him would have been speculation.

  I turned on my laptop and pulled up the website for the Buxley Beacon. Jackie hadn’t been able to show the Schneider article to me at the restaurant, and I wanted to see it now.

  I had assumed she wrote the article, but the byline belonged to Nick Olsen, and once I began reading, it was obvious it hadn’t been written by Jackie. The information wasn’t exactly riveting. The feud between Randolph Buxley and Daniel Schneider wasn’t even mentioned, and the two-page spread was mostly filled with pictures of businesses the Schneider family had established in the town.

  I put my elbow on the desk and leaned my head on my hand before closing my eyes. It was a huge effort to stay awake.

  The furnace came on, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I was done down here. I quickly scanned the rest of the article. Nick had closed out by telling of the passing of patriarch Horace Schneider. He must have needed filler, because he listed every surviving relative.

  My heart skipped a beat. Horace was survived by two sisters. Nick had listed them as Anna Schneider-Eberley and Petunia “Matilda” Schneider-Fox.

  I turned off my laptop and ran up the stairs. It was going to be a busy day tomorrow.

  Chapter Twelve

  A chill coursed through my body.

  It wasn’t because a cold front had come through overnight, and snow was falling softly around me. It was a chill of anticipation.

  So far this morning, everything had gone my way. I slept in until Glenn came home and woke me by climbing into bed beside me. He said he wanted to be sure I was warm and toasty before heading out into the first snowfall of the year.

  My first stop of the day had been to the courthouse. Luck was with me when that horrible, snoopy Vicki, who was also horrible and snoopy at the bank, wasn’t there to assist me when I made my request for copies of town maps showing the founding and growth of Buxley.

  I left with four large maps, rolled and tucked into a tube, and I didn’t even feel ripped off when I plunked down eighty dollars for them.

  I now stood on the doorstep of Petunia “Matilda” Schneider-Fox’s house. I hadn’t called ahead to ask if she would see me, but my instincts told me this would go my way as well; hence, the chill of anticipation.

  I looked behind me and took in the view one more time. Matilda lived on the eastern edge of town in an attractive two-story brick home with Tudor influences. There were numerous pine trees on the large property. The fresh snowfall made each tree look like a Christmas tree. Flower beds around the house were dormant, but it was easy to visualize how beautiful it would be here in the spring.

  A thought crossed my mind to click my heels three times before ringing the bell. I couldn’t help smiling at the silly thought, but something felt magical about the moment. I knew I was going to get answers to complete my puzzle today.

  I reached out to push the doorbell, but before I could ring, a woman, who I presumed to be Matilda, flung the door open.

  “What are you doing out here? You’re grinning like you’re addled. Get off my property or I’m calling the police.”

  My jaw dropped. This was an old woman who hadn’t yet felt the effects of gravity. She was taller than I was and built like a dock worker. Her snow-white hair was long and full. She wore it pulled back and tied with a black velvet ribbon at the nape of her neck. Her cardigan, blouse, and slacks were attractive. I suspected she had been a striking figure in her youth.

  When she made a move to shut the door, I said, “Wait a minute.” I could have kicked myself for not having one of my cards already in hand. I dug through my bag and handed one to her. “I’m Jo Ravens with Baranski and Ravens Investigations. I’d like to talk with you about your nephew. The one who’s in jail in Indiana.”

  She eyed me with an evil eye. Or maybe she gave me the evil eye, and I now had a curse on me. Either way, the thought that my day was going to go right from beginning to end was fading fast.

  “Arnold Baranski?”

  I nodded and said, “Yes.”

  She shrugged her shoulders, opened the door wide, and said. “Come on in.”

  I not only stepped into her living room, but I stepped back in time to the 1930s. The upright, tightly upholstered furniture was similar in style and color to what had been in my Grandma F
rasier’s house. The mustard, peach, and blue tones were familiar and comforting.

  Matilda sat in a wingback chair and waved a hand, indicating I should sit on the sofa. It was a good thing I sat gingerly on the antique piece of furniture. It was hard as a rock.

  A bottle of whiskey, a crystal whiskey glass, and a partially smoked cigar in a crystal ashtray sat on the table beside her. The air reeked of the cigar odor.

  She poured a half glass of whiskey for herself without offering one to me. Not that I would have taken it, but for evoking such a classy first impression, her manners seemed off. I was further floored when she lit the cigar and offered one to me from an ornate box on the table.

  I could only shake my head as I watched her puff with obvious enjoyment. She had to be in her eighties, but she looked and sounded better than Mama - and Mama hadn’t yet reached sixty.

  “So, how is Arnold?” she asked.

  “He’s great. He’s mentoring me to take over his business when he retires. Do you know him well?”

  A sly smile crossed her face. “Well enough. We had a thing back in the summer of seventy-three. He was my yard boy that year.” She took a drink of her whiskey before puffing on the cigar again. “That was back before anyone cared when a seasoned woman helped a young man learn the ropes.”

  I tried to keep my mouth from hanging open, but my brain exploded a little, and I lost control. I stared at the woman with my mouth open so far, my chin was nearly on my chest. I knew I was never going to be able to get the visual of an eighteen or nineteen-year-old Arnie romping with a forty-something Matilda out of my head.

  She laughed, and I realized she had enjoyed shocking me with her words.

  I tried to change the subject. “Is your husband home?”

  “Oh, heavens no. John’s been dead for twenty-five years now. He never smoked or drank a day in his life. I told him whiskey would keep his arteries open, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Thought his doctor knew best. He died of a massive coronary. I’m ninety-two last month, and my heart’s as good as yours.”

  I doubted that, but I realized she was at least ten years older than I had first imagined.

  She leaned back in her chair, puffed her cigar and blew smoke rings into the air. Now she was just showing off. It was time to get down to business.

  “You have a nephew in jail in Gary, right?”

  “My sister’s kid. He’s a good-for-nothin’. Always has been. He was a klepto - stealing stuff. He finally went on a spree with one of his good-for-nothin’ friends. Armed robbery and attempted murder. Do you have kids?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well don’t. John and I had a good life without kids messing it up. And kids today are the worst. They’re spoilt and entitled. Back in my day, you had kids to work for you. They worked your farm or in your business. They were productive.”

  It was a good thing I didn’t have Pepper with me. She would have given Matilda a piece of her mind over her attitude toward children.

  She emitted a few more rings. I was going to have to burn my clothes later. I’d never get this smell out of them.

  “Did you visit your nephew often?”

  “His name is Scotty. And no, I didn’t. Only went there once.”

  She appeared to be a straightforward type of woman. I wasn’t going to beat around the bush with her. “Someone overheard your conversation at the jail and said you asked your neph-, Scotty, about a map to the Confederate gold in Buxley. Why did you think he knew about a map?”

  She stopped talking and drained her glass before pouring another drink. She still didn’t offer one to me.

  “I didn’t until my sister called to tell me our brother, Horace, was dying. She was out of state when she got the call from his nurse. She asked me to go over to his house to be with him, and that old gasbag made a death-bed confession.”

  My eyes widened. On second thought, Pepper was going to kill me for not bringing her here to meet this fascinating woman and hear her stories.

  In the next moment, I may as well have been Pepper when I asked breathlessly, “What did he say?”

  She smiled and said, “He told me a story.”

  I waited for her to tell me, but she took another drink, a few puffs of the cigar, and asked, “Who are your people?”

  “What do you mean – my people?”

  “Your parents. Who are your parents?”

  “My mother is Estelle Frasier. I never really knew my dad.”

  She frowned. “Estelle’s your mother? That was real sad about her and your daddy. You were pretty little at the time, weren’t you?”

  My palms began to sweat, which meant my armpits would soon follow, and my mouth was suddenly dry. This woman had knowledge of my family that I didn’t, and I didn’t know if I wanted to hear it.

  I desperately needed a glass of water, but managed to say, “He left when I was five.”

  Her tone changed. I think she sensed my unease. She said with kindness in her voice, “Patrick Frasier was a good man. He tried to do right by Estelle. When she got pregnant, he did the honorable thing and married her. But he was always in love with Maria, and there was nothing Estelle could do to change that.”

  Thoughts raced through my mind. Mama was pregnant with Pepper when she got married? And our father never loved her? And she knew he loved another woman when she married him? A flood of emotions washed over me. Sadness, pity, and sympathy for Mama. Pity, sympathy, and continued anger toward a father I never knew. I even felt anger toward Matilda for being so blunt.

  I felt the color drain from my face. Matilda handed her glass of whiskey to me, and I slugged it down.

  “Who was Maria?” I asked.

  “She was here from Mexico to visit her grandparents for a summer. She was a stunning beauty. And your father was a handsome man. You didn’t get your good looks from your mother, you know. You look like him.”

  I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t move. I wanted to tell her I’d heard enough, but I couldn’t say the words. I sat mute.

  “There was a lot of talk around town when Maria went back to Mexico. Everyone knew your father had fallen in love with her and assumed he would follow her. It was a real shock when he married Estelle a few months later.”

  No wonder Mama never mentioned him. Our father had always been a forbidden topic of conversation in our home. Pepper had some memories of him, mine were vague, and Hank had nothing. Mama had always been determined to keep it that way, too.

  I was somewhat accusatory when I asked, “Why did you tell me this? It’s obvious I had never heard the story before.”

  “I believe it’s important for you to know your people. You should research your family tree sometime. You’d be amazed at what you find.”

  She poured whiskey into a fresh glass and took a drink. She didn’t offer to refill mine.

  “If you look at this story from Maria’s side,” she said. “It becomes a love story for the ages. A young girl comes to America and meets a handsome man. She falls deeply in love, and he loves her equally. She is forced to leave the country without him, while he enters into a loveless marriage with another woman. The girl is heartbroken and lives an empty life in her home country. Years later, he shows up on her doorstep to sweep her off her feet and tell her he’ll never let her go again.” Matilda puffed her cigar a few times and finished with, “That’s a Lifetime movie if I ever saw one.” She leaned back in her chair and appeared wholly satisfied with herself.

  I was dumbfounded for a few moments before her words struck me as incredibly funny. I burst into laughter. Leave it to Mama to get herself on the wrong end of a love story.

  For as emotional as I had been a few moments ago, I was equally unemotional now. Mama and my father had an interesting, possibly tragic relationship, but I had never really been affected by it. Mama had provided well enough for Pepper, Hank, and me, and between her, Aunt Bee, and Grandma and Grandpa Fraiser, we had fun together as a family. Patrick Frasier running off to Mexico was his l
oss. Not ours.

  Matilda stood from her chair and left the room. I managed to stop laughing and wondered if I should leave. She hadn’t dismissed me, so I decided to wait.

  Several minutes later, she came back into the room with a cup of hot tea in one hand and a plate of what looked like small tea sandwiches in the other. She set both in front of me.

  “Have a bite before you go. I don’t like to see anyone drink and drive.”

  A shot of whiskey wasn’t technically drinking, but as I had thrown the whiskey into an empty stomach, a bite to eat was probably a good idea.

  She picked up one of the sandwiches for herself and sat back down in her chair.

  “I suppose you’d like to hear Horace’s confession before you leave?” she asked.

  In all the drama over my parents, I had almost forgotten why I was there – but not quite. I nodded my head.

  “Do you know the story of the feud between Randolph Buxley and Daniel Schneider?”

  I had just taken a bite of my sandwich. It was delicious with a cream cheese and cucumber type filling. I nodded my head again.

  “Then you know Randolph stole the gold and buried it in this area. The way the story is told, he had some moral dilemma about digging it up, so it’s still buried somewhere around here today.”

  She cut and lit a fresh cigar. After a few puffs, she poured more whiskey into her glass. I couldn’t understand how she looked so youthful or how her voice was so strong and clear. If I didn’t know better, I would think the real Matilda was dead and buried in the basement, and I was talking with an imposter.

  “Here’s where Horace comes into the story,” she said. “He said Daddy confessed the truth to him on his deathbed.” She took another drink of the whiskey. “What’s with people confessing when they’re dying? Take those secrets to the grave, I say.”

  She sat pensive for a few moments. I didn’t disturb her thoughts. I grabbed my third tiny sandwich.

  “Now, supposedly, when Randolph Buxley came back to retrieve the gold, Daniel Schneider had already established a working farm on the land. As far as anyone in town ever knew, their feud was always over the land, but the family secret that’s been confessed now for three generations is that Daniel found the gold when he figured out Randolph had buried it on his land. He was afraid someone would find out he had it, and he’d be killed for it or strung up by Confederates looking for it, but he sure wasn’t giving it back to Randolph, so he buried it in a new location off his property.”