Trick or Deceit

by Shelley Freydont

  Dementia or Alzheimer’s, Liv thought. That probably cost Ernie plenty. No wonder the man was having trouble paying his taxes. And still clinging to hope.

  “And you don’t know anything else about the shoes or what Lucille was doing over there in the middle of the night?”

  “I already told you,” Ernie said, his voice tight with exasperation. “And if you think my Marla Jean had anything to do with it, you’re as bonkers as my mother-in-law.”

  Bill didn’t even flinch. “Marla Jean?”

  “I just found them. I knew I probably should’ve turned them in. But they were in our yard. Somebody put them there, to make it look bad for my dad. I knew you’d make me tell where I found them and then you’d arrest Dad again.” Marla looked longingly at the shoes. “They were so pretty. What harm did it do?”

  “It interfered with a murder investigation,” Bill said. “If you know anything more—anything at all—I suggest you tell me now.”

  Marl Jean shook her head.

  Bill looked at Ernie.

  Ernie slowly shook his head, an echo of his daughter’s gesture.

  Liv wondered if Marla Jean was telling the whole truth.

  Bill motioned to the officer by the door. “Dawson, see if you can find a large evidence bag in the trunk of my cruiser.”

  The officer nodded sharply and went out the back door. No one spoke while he was gone. As soon as he returned, Bill dropped the shoes in a paper evidence bag and sealed it, before handing it back to Dawson.

  “Now, Marla Jean, if you’ll accompany me to the front yard, you can show me exactly where you found these shoes.”

  Marla led them back through the dark house where odd shapes and figures languished in the corners.

  Once they were all on the porch, Bill stopped.

  “Everybody, stay on the porch or the walk, please,” he said. “Marla?”

  Liv noticed that two officers in a second police cruiser had come to stand on the sidewalk that ran in front of the houses on that side of the street.

  Marla Jean went slowly down the steps, turned around. “One was there.” She pointed to the ground near the right of the first porch step. “It was just sitting there.”

  “And the other one?”

  “Well, I looked for it, didn’t I? I mean, why would someone lose one shoe and not the other.” Her face took on a wistful expression. Liv wondered if she were conjuring up an image of Cinderella.

  Marla Jean was obviously not happy with her life.

  “And you found it where?”

  “Over there, right under that bush. It was sticking out a little bit.”

  Bill motioned to his men, and one trotted over carrying a camera. He took photos of the position of the first shoe and the second.

  “Did you find anything else?”

  Marla looked confused. “No. What else would there be?”

  Bill glanced at Liv. “I don’t know, just wondering. But I do need my men to search the grounds for any evidence. And, Ernie, we’ll need to look around inside, too.”

  “Why? So Marla Jean picked up the shoes. She didn’t know they were evidence. Somebody must’ve thrown them there.” Then his expression changed. “Oh no, you’re not going to pin this on me or mine. I was mad at Lucille and the others, but I didn’t kill her or anybody else.”

  He lifted his hand abruptly. Liv tensed. Bill reached to his hip. But Ernie just scratched his head. “Somebody’s trying to frame me. It’s that low-down Barry Lindquist. His place isn’t even a haunted house. Just a bunch of dummies that don’t do anything.”

  “We have probable cause. We can do this the easy way or I can get a search warrant,” Bill said. “But if I get a warrant, the whole town will know.”

  “The whole town will know anyway. Ruth Benedict’s driven by twice today already. She’s got her nose everywhere, the old bag. Go ahead and search, things can’t get a whole lot worse than they are now.”

  Liv thought they could get a lot worse. But she kept it to herself.

  Bill nodded sympathetically. “We’ll be quick and I’ll swear my men to secrecy. This is an ongoing investigation.”

  Ernie barked out a derisive laugh. “Suit yourself.”

  “I don’t need to tell you and your daughter to please stay in town and be available in case I need to talk to you again.”

  “I told you—”

  “And I may need you to tell me again. So if you don’t want me to haul you down to the station right this minute, you’ll agree to cooperate.”

  “All right, all right. I’ll stay put and I’ll cooperate. Not like I have anyplace else to go.”

  “That goes for you, too, Marla. Understand?”

  “Can I at least go to the play rehearsal?”

  Bill slowly inhaled, the only nod he ever gave to exasperation. “Yes, but I would suggest you don’t talk about this to anyone.”

  She nodded. “Can I have the shoes back after you’re done with them?”

  Bill shook his head, though Liv thought it was more in dismay than rejecting the girl’s request.

  “I’m going to send two of my officers to look around the yard, then have them come into the house.”

  “What are they gonna look for?” Ernie asked. “Maybe we can help.”

  “That’s not necessary, but thanks for offering.”

  Ernie took Marla Jean’s arm and started up the steps.

  Bill nodded to Officer Dawson, who followed Ernie and Marla Jean into the house.

  Bill called over the officers from the second car. Told them what he wanted them to do. Had Liv describe the scarf. “And anything else that looks suspicious.”

  “Everything around that place looks suspicious,” one of them said. “It’s full of Halloween stuff.”

  “Use your judgment. And be neat. Ernie needs to open his house to the public by this weekend. Don’t aggravate him any more than necessary.”

  The two officers began moving around the foundation of the house, looking at the ground.

  Liv didn’t envy them. The yard was one thing. But there was a garage and toolshed that were probably filled to the ceiling. She knew Ernie had moved a lot of furniture out to make room for the spooks and goblins.

  And looking for a scarf in that dark and scary setup could take them all day.

  “Liv, are you finished here?” Bill asked.

  “Yes.” She stood.

  “Where are you going now?” he asked. “Back to work?”

  Liv glanced at the time on her phone. “I’m going to drop by Barry’s and then go to the office. I have Jonathon Preston coming tomorrow and I want to make sure things are in good condition.”

  “Then hop in. I’ll give you a ride.”

  Liv climbed into the front seat, and they drove the three and a half blocks to Barry Lindquist’s Museum of Yankee Horrors. The original yellow caution tape had been removed from the entrance to the parking lot, but the new crime scene tape still cordoned off the vacant lot.

  Liv gestured to the tape. “Any idea how long the tape will be up? I need to get those weeds mowed before the opening.”

  “Not quite yet. Until we’re sure we have collected everything we need for the case, it stays as is.”

  Liv sighed. “I suppose we could hang some orange lights around it.”

  They parked next to a BMW coupe.

  “Thanks for the ride,” she said, and got out of the cruiser.

  Bill got out, too. Smiled at her. “I was on my way here, too.”

  “More problems?”

  “Not that I know of. But then I hadn’t expected to see Carson Foster’s BMW here.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “That’s Carson Foster’s car?” Liv picked up her pace.

  Bill hurried to keep up. “Where are you going in such a lather?”

&n
bsp; “Sorry. It’s not my business. But what’s he doing here? What else can go wrong?”

  “Hopefully, nothing. But hold up for a minute. I want you to do something for me.”

  Liv stopped. “Sure.”

  “I need someone to go through the museum and look for that shawl.” He looked around. “Someone who can recognize it and do it without causing alarm. It’s bad enough that I have uniforms over at Ernie’s. But the fact that we found the shoes will be all over town. I don’t know how, but news gets out. Always has. And I expect it always will.”

  “You don’t want people to know about the shawl? Surely if you announced it, someone might come forward if they’d taken it.” Liv frowned. “Or the murderer would try to destroy it—if he hasn’t already. You think the shawl may lead us to the killer?”

  “It’s worth a try. If he doesn’t know about the shawl, he may let his guard down.”

  “His?”

  “Or her. Between you and me, the coroner found a contusion on Lucille’s head, but cause of death was strangulation. She’s not—wasn’t—a tiny fragile thing. She would have fought back if she could.”

  “Unless she was knocked out first.”

  “Exactly. Something’s not adding up. Until we have a clearer picture, I don’t want anybody to know about the shawl until the police have it in their possession.”

  “So if I find it, don’t let on? Leave it in place?”

  “Exactly. Can you do that?”

  “Sure. I’ll just have to call Ted. I want that proselytizer gone before I take Jon Preston on a tour of town tomorrow.”

  “Well, that’s one thing I can help you with, at least. We took him to the edge of town and now he’s gone.”

  “That’s a relief. He can be someone else’s problem. You don’t think he’ll come back?”

  “I hope not, but if he shows his face here again, we’ll arrest him. He’s wanted on suspicion of theft and disrupting the peace in at least two other towns. And we’ll gladly give him a ride.”

  “Theft? I guess he’s not a real preacher?” Liv asked, thinking of Reverend Schorr, who was her idea of a good man.

  “No. Just a grifter with a flair for drama and sticky fingers.”

  “Great.”

  “We’d better get a move on.” Bill sounded tired. Liv was sure his sciatica was acting up again. Hopefully this murder investigation wasn’t cutting into his yoga classes.

  As they neared the house, the front door opened and one of the volunteers looked out. Liv could hear shouting coming through the open door.

  The volunteer saw them and motioned for them to hurry.

  Bill moved first but not fast. He was definitely in some pain.

  “It’s Mr. Foster,” the volunteer said. “He’s really mad.”

  Bill nodded. “You’d better let me go in first, Liv.”

  That was fine by her.

  Bill stepped up to the door. “Barry, this is Sheriff Gunnison and Liv Montgomery.”

  “Sheriff, in here!”

  Bill went in. Liv waited a second, then went in after him.

  It looked like the rehearsal for a play. Barry and the man Liv guessed was Carson Foster stood in the middle of the parlor. Face to face.

  They were about the same height, though Carson was definitely the more sophisticated of the two. His silver hair was cut in a style that screamed salon. His face was tanned in spite of it being October, and not from working outside, Liv guessed, but from sailing or some other outdoor sport.

  Barry’s face had turned nearly as red as his hair and beard. And his paint-splattered work clothes served as a sharp contrast to Carson’s conservative business suit.

  A group of volunteers clustered stage left, and another group of seamstresses looked out from the opening to the dining room, which had been commandeered as a sewing and costume room. And all around the room, the criminals of history watched it all with their blank mannequin eyes.

  “What seems to be the problem here?” Bill said, striding into the room.

  “I demand you arrest this man,” Carson said.

  “Why?”

  “For murder, of course.” He switched his concentration back to Barry. “You just never got over it did you? Had to pay me back.”

  “By wrecking my own place and killing your wife? Get real.”

  “To get back at me.”

  “What? How would trashing my place and losing ten thousand dollars be getting back at you?”

  “To throw suspension off yourself.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “No, I’m fed up. What did Lucille ever do to you?” Carson’s expression froze, then twisted in rage. “Why you—” He grabbed for Barry but Barry jumped aside.

  “Carson, cut it out,” Bill ordered.

  “I never even looked at your wife,” Barry yelled. “You’re making a dang fool of yourself, and in front of all these people. Man. Get a grip.”

  Carson rubbed his hand across his mouth. Looked around like he was just becoming aware of his rather large audience.

  “You’re a lying, cheating son of a bitch,” Barry said. “Trust me, if I wanted to get back at you for years of bad financial advice, I would have gone after you, not Lucille.”

  “Okay, that’s enough. Both of you. Do you want me to have to call backup?”

  Both men stepped away from the other.

  “You can both make your accusations out at the station, if you feel it’s necessary. If you were just blowing off steam, I think you should call it even. Carson, go home and let me do my job.”

  “He killed my wife.”

  “As yet, we have found no evidence that points to Barry.”

  “As yet?” Barry snapped, his face growing even redder. “You won’t find any, unless someone put it there and is trying to frame me. And we all know who that would be, don’t we?”

  “That’s it,” Bill said. “I’m taking both of you in until you can cool off.”

  “Aw, Bill. I got work to do,” Barry groused. “And I wasn’t the one coming in here making all sorts of absurd accusations.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not going to be arrested for trying to bring a murderer to justice.”

  “Carson,” Bill said, “you’d better watch what kind of things you say in public or you could find yourself smacked with a lawsuit. Now, get out of here and go to work, and if I find you on this property again, I will arrest you.”

  “Ha,” Carson said, but he was already hurrying toward the door.

  Bill pointed to Barry. “No more trouble.”

  “I didn’t start it, and how dare he accuse me of those things. I don’t even like his wife—but I don’t dislike her enough to off her,” he added hurriedly. “There are others though . . .”

  Bill narrowed his eyes at him. “Do you have any actual knowledge of anyone who would have a reason to kill Lucille?”

  “Besides her husband? Not really. But if my wife ran around on me like that—I wouldn’t kill her, but I would divorce her. ’Course I am divorced, but not cause of that,” he mumbled as an afterthought.

  Bill gave Liv a significant look, which she took as her cue to ingratiate herself with Barry.

  Bill cleared his throat. “Liv wants to take a look around before she brings the grant money rep around.”

  “Why? We’re going great guns,” Barry said looking around at the half-finished displays. “That theater group has been a godsend, then Miriam Krause over at A Stitch in Time sent some of her ladies over to help and donated some material for repairs.”

  His eyes misted over. “Sure makes you proud to be from Celebration Bay.”

  Liv nodded.

  “Really. There’s no need to worry.”

  “I’m not worried,” Liv assured him. “It’s just that I want to show the representative from the grant
foundation around tomorrow, if that’s okay. I’d like to familiarize myself with the different exhibits. That way if he has questions, I won’t be caught not knowing the answer.”

  “Oh. You take all the time you want, just be careful you don’t trip over something. I’d take you around myself but I’m overseeing the construction out back.”

  “Just pretend I’m not here. I’ll be fine.”

  Bill and Barry left and Liv stepped into the former parlor. All around the room Barry had transformed lifeless mannequins into realistic horrors. She read the plaque that described the first grisly scene. Sarah Good, condemned as a witch, Salem, Mass., 1692. It was one she hadn’t noticed before, tucked behind the pocket door that led into the main room. Against the wainscoted wall a woman in a pilgrim dress and cap hung by her neck from a rope. Liv wondered if Sarah had been the headless mannequin the actor had danced with outside. Her last waltz before dancing at the end of a rope.

  Yuck. She moved to the next display, also a scene of the witch trials. A plaque read The Pressing of Jacob Kahn.

  A man lay on a slab of rock. Another slab had been placed on top of him and was slowly crushing him to death. His arms were stretched out, his fingers splayed. His face was distorted, eyes bulging, mouth opened in a silent scream—a latex mask fitted over the serene face of the mannequin. The stones were foam, Liv reminded herself, but it still looked like an awful way to die.

  This wouldn’t be a good venue for smaller children. Liv made a mental note to have Barry put out a sign directing parents with young children to Patty Wainwright’s child-friendly spook house.

  But now she had another job to do: Find Lucille Foster’s shawl. She pulled her gaze away from that tortured face, and after making sure she was alone in the room, stood on tiptoe to look behind the slab. Moved closer and peered in the dark corners. No sign of gold and brown pashmina wool.

  Liv continued around the room, studying each scene, while she looked for Lucille’s shawl and kept one eye out for Barry. The room felt airless, the only sound the distant whirr of the sewing machines. It was eerie and unsettling—and spooky. With each new venue, each tragic scene, she half expected to come face-to-face with another murder victim.