She left on Marjorie’s groan.
The next morning, Marjorie decided halfway through her baking run to take Monkey Business along for the jaunt. Shadow was clinging to her for dear life while the chocolate Persian glared daggers at him from the nearby sofa.
“If I bring you, promise you’ll behave yourself,” she said, giving him a quick cuddle. “Because if you’re snippy then we won’t make any sales and the foster kids will have to go without.”
Monkey looked suitably chagrined—a neat trick but one which Marjorie didn’t trust for a second. “I’m serious. At the first sign of mischief, I’m putting you in a cat carrier and you’ll be in timeout for the rest of the evening.”
Knowing she had a lot of walking to look forward to later, Marjorie rested herself as much as she could with a café full of harried customers. As one couple stumbled inside, clinging onto a half dozen shopping bags, she had to rush over and hold the door. “Wouldn’t you feel more comfortable leaving those in the car?”
“Didn’t you hear?” the woman said with a sniff. “There’s a Christmas thief about stealing everyone’s presents.”
“That’s why we’ve left the shopping till the last minute,” her husband agreed. “If we had to worry about this haul being left alone while we were at work, it’d stress us into an early grave.”
“Well, at least let me store them behind the counter, out of your way,” Marjorie said, feeling a pang of regret that such fear existed in her town. “You’ll have a full view of them while being able to enjoy your coffee.”
The suggestion went down so well, she soon repeated it as more customers arrived with bundles under their arms. An hour before closing, she finally thought to place out a jar for donations in case the same news would prompt generosity as well as fear.
“Ready?” Esme called out as Marjorie hauled the sign indoors. “I’ve got my best walking shoes on.”
Jerry strolled through the door after her, rolling his eyes. “And don’t make me tell you the battle I fought to get her to wear them. Somebody seemed to think high-heeled sandals were fitting footwear.”
“Did somebody?” Esme poked her partner in the ribs with a chuckle. “I was just thinking I’d get more people taking me up on my offer if I was stylish.”
“Are you coming along, Jerry?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been banned from the venture, even though I offered to be the muscle. Just remember”—he turned to Esme—“if that cumbersome chair grows too heavy, I’ve got my phone turned on and charged up, ready for your call.”
The portable ‘massage chair’ wasn’t actually that large. It affixed onto an existing chair to provide a comfortable padded spot for customers to lay their faces while their masseuse worked behind them.
“It’s only balsa wood,” Esme said with a tone that suggested she’d already been through this a dozen times before. “And we won’t be going far.”
“Unless we strike out with all the neighbours,” Marjorie said, voicing her main concern.
“That’s not the spirit I was hoping for,” her friend replied. “Now, are you going to be okay carrying all your baking?”
“I’m taking a trolley.” Marjorie pulled it out. Stainless steel practicality festooned with Christmas tinsel. “And once I’ve sold a few batches, you’ll be able to perch your chair on top.”
“You see?” Esme pushed Jerry’s chest and avoided his face as he leaned in for a kiss. “We’ll be fine. You’re worrying about nothing.”
They struck out at the first few houses, but when they knocked on Gwen Chalmers door, the lady clapped her hands. “You’re a godsend,” she declared, purchasing three packets of Marjorie’s gingerbread men and waving her hand when she tried to find change. “Don’t worry about a few coins. I thought my head would explode when Charles called to say he was bringing a few mates over for a barbeque. The man doesn’t seem to understand some events take planning!”
At the next house along, a housewife on the verge of tears took advantage of Esme’s ten-minute neck and shoulder massage. Marjorie happily exchanged gossip about the building site with the woman’s husband while he repaid her with a cup of tea.
“I should remember this for next year,” Marjorie said as she sold out of the gingerbread men and started selling her triple chocolate biscuits in earnest. “At this rate, I’ll equal the day’s takings in an hour.”
Esme flexed her fingers out and grinned in delight. “Didn’t I tell you? Stressed people confined to their homes are always desperate for sugar and massages.”
“You did.” Marjorie slowed as they passed Martin’s house. “The poor man. I wonder why there’s a car in the driveway?”
“We have the perfect excuse to find out,” Esme declared, dragging on Marjorie’s hand when she tried to demur. “Don’t be an old fogie.”
Monkey Business seemed happy to let his owner be pulled against her will and jumped to the front of the trolley for the short, bumpy ride.
“Stop looking so suspicious,” Esme hissed as she knocked on the front door. “You might as well hang a sign out saying ‘I’m not meant to be here.’”
“There’s no one home,” Marjorie said with a sigh of relief after a few seconds passed with no reply. “Let’s move on.”
“Hello?” a woman said, pulling the door open. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Ingrid Thorpe?” Esme asked with no apparent shame while Marjorie tried to make herself as small as possible. “I’m so sorry to hear about Martin.”
“I’ve gone back to my maiden name, Littleman,” Ingrid said, shaking the hand Esme thrust at her. “And yes. It’s been quite a shock.”
“We’re selling massages and biscuits,” Esme said, pushing inside. “I can give you a lovely neck and shoulder massage. It’ll be just the treat if you’re carrying any stiffness in your upper body.”
“Oh well, I—”
“You must be devastated about your ex. Even when you’re having a messy divorce and say you want your partner dead, I don’t think anybody really means it.”
“What? I never—”
“Not you. I just meant anyone who goes through a breakup. Are you moving back into the house or are you selling?”
Ingrid seemed taken aback by the rapid-fire questioning and Marjorie couldn’t blame her. She rarely saw Esme in full gossip-collecting mode and found it distinctly uncomfortable.
“I’m selling,” Ingrid managed after a long pause. “Since Martin and I split up, I’ve made a new life for myself down in Timaru.”
“Oh, that’s a lovely place. I heard you got in a forensic accountant to look over the financial details, is that true?”
Marjorie gasped. “Esme!”
“What? I’m just asking.”
“It’s none of our business.”
Ingrid’s eyes flicked between them, her face growing more confused by the second. “Who told you that?”
“Martin,” Esme said while Marjorie’s cheeks flushed with colour. She couldn’t stand on the high ground when she’d told her friend what Nigel had told her.
“Yes, it’s true.” Ingrid frowned at the trolley as Monkey Business grew bored with the conversation and declared his intention to nap with a loud yawn. “I’ll take a packet of those biscuits. I haven’t had a minute to myself since I drove up this morning and I’m starving.”
She walked into the kitchen after this pronouncement and the two women took it as an invitation to follow. Marjorie passed her the biscuits and considered not charging since Esme seemed determined to extract information as payment. But they were doing this for a good cause, so she tossed the impulse aside.
Ingrid tore open the cellophane and offered the biscuits around while the kettle was boiling. “You want a cup of tea? I’d offer you coffee, but Martin only had instant and it’s honestly not worth the trouble.”
Having already accepted an offer of tea once on their journey, Marjorie declined. If she had one more, her back teeth would start floating.
&n
bsp; “I didn’t want to get all nasty during the divorce,” Ingrid said after polishing off two biscuits in a row. “But I know for certain that Martin had more assets than he declared to the courts. I asked him over and over to just front up with the true numbers, but he kept insisting he had.” She shrugged. “I had no choice but to hire an accountant. After putting twenty years of my time and earnings into our marriage, I wasn’t about to be cheated just because my husband is better at hiding his assets than I am.”
“Fair enough, too,” Marjorie said, remembering the painstaking settlement that she’d received as part of her divorce. Being a failure at marriage was hard enough. Feeling like your ex-partner had got the better of you in the decree would be unbearable.
“How did you know he had more money than he declared?” she asked. “Did the bank account balances suddenly go down?”
“No, but Martin always contributed at least as much as I did to the joint accounts and suddenly he was declaring half that. He also had his own savings account—well, we both did—but it was mysteriously empty when it came time to settle.” Ingrid tipped the last of her tea into the sink and rinsed out the cup. “Then I heard he’s got enough funding to let go most of his clients. None of it added up.”
“Thank goodness Jerry and I keep separate accounts,” Esme said. “I’d hate to think of him scurrying around, hiding money if we split.”
“Yeah,” Ingrid said, nodding. “Try it when you’re counting on the funds to afford a house. I thought I’d chosen a modest dwelling but without the additional income, there’s no way I could afford to buy.”
“I suppose you’re set now.”
Marjorie’s eyes widened at Esme’s words while her friend gave her an innocent stare.
“You mean now my ex-husband’s dead?” Ingrid angrily munched her way through another biscuit. “I suppose your next line is to imply I killed him!”
Esme gasped and put a hand to her chest. “The thought never crossed my mind.” After a second of silence, she added, “But since we’re here…”
“No! Much as I wanted to, I didn’t kill Martin. In fact, the police say his death was accidental.”
“Well, then. That’s good to know.”
Marjorie shook her head. “No, it’s not good to know, and it’s none of our business.” She shoved Esme between the shoulder-blades, aiming her at the door. “Thanks for your hospitality and for putting up with my very inquisitive friend, but we’ll be on our way now.”
“If you’re going around the neighbourhood, would you mind very much telling the rest of the street I didn’t kill Martin?” Ingrid asked, apparently unfazed. “Only, I’ve only been back in town a few hours and I’ve already had three drive-bys with people openly staring.”
“We will.” Marjorie pushed Esme out the door when it seemed she was about to head back into the kitchen. “Honestly, I don’t know how you can be so brazen!”
“It’s better than talking about someone behind their back,” Esme said with a shrug. “And it’s not like you weren’t wondering the same thing.”
“Well, yes. But I’d be too polite to ask.”
“Then it’s a miracle you ever find out the truth about anything,” Esme declared, walking towards Nigel’s house. “At least now, we can tell her neighbours she’s not a murderer with some confidence.”
Marjorie burst into laughter as she followed along behind, still stunned from the visit. When they got to Nigel Blythe’s front door she pushed ahead of Esme, not in any hurry for a repeat performance.
Chapter Eight
“You remember I told you about the spouting,” Nigel said as Esme finished working her magic fingers into his back and shoulders. “About how Martin kept refusing to fix it, so water kept pooling on my side of the fence?”
“I remember.” Marjorie was sitting on his kitchen counter. She wouldn’t usually be so bold as to jump up on a stranger’s bench, but Nigel had chosen Saturday morning to stain all his kitchen chairs and had offered it as the only alternative to standing.
Nigel stretched his arms up to the ceiling and groaned. “That’s about a thousand times better, thank you. What’s the occasion you’re raising money for?” He handed across Esme’s fee, then raised an eyebrow when neither of them answered. “Or is this a private venture?”
“No, it’s covering the stolen Christmas gifts from the community centre.” Marjorie hopped down from the bench and flexed out her legs. Although they hadn’t walked far, the exercise on top of her daily work was making itself known. “And what happened with the spouting?”
“Oh, well.” Nigel rubbed at his eyebrow, showing reluctance to elaborate though it was he who’d begun the conversation. “Just, I think I might be responsible for Martin’s death.”
Marjorie went still. “You do?”
“He sent me a text message. Only, I hadn’t checked at the time the police were next door because nobody ever texts me. I don’t really understand how to check for them.”
Esme gave an amused snort. “How do you know he sent one, then?”
“My phone had an exclamation mark in the corner. When I handed it to the woman in the dairy, she showed me the message.”
Marjorie waited for a long pause, then prompted, “Which said?”
“I could chillax because he would fix the spouting.”
“Oh, no.” Esme wrinkled her nose. “You’re definitely going down for the crime, then. That’s proof of murder right there.”
Nigel’s face registered alarm before he realised she was joking. “Ha, ha. I don’t mean I killed him with my bare hands.”
“You think he fell off the ladder while he was fixing the spouting and that makes it your fault?” Marjorie’s mouth twisted. “You know it’s not, right?”
“Logically, I suppose.” Nigel thumped at his chest. “It feels true here, though, and that’s where it counts.”
“A friend of ours overheard a conversation at the police station,” Esme said after a moment. “It doesn’t make the situation any more pleasant, but they think it might be murder.” She paused, then added, “Actual murder, that is. Not asking someone to maintain their property like they’re meant to, murder.”
“No!” Nigel’s face drained of all colour. “But I thought he fell.”
“So did I.” Marjorie picked up Monkey Business and cuddled him close to her. “That’s what it looked like.”
“Much as I hate to think I had anything to do with Martin’s death,” Nigel said, “I hope your friend overheard wrong. The last thing we need is a killer stalking the community right on Christmas.” He leaned over to pet Monkey on the head. “Are you trying to get this one adopted?”
“No, he’s helping.” As though the Persian knew they were talking about him, he promptly attacked a corner of the cellophane biscuit wrapping, tearing a neat hole.
“Helping, eh? How much for a damaged packet?”
“The same price as for a whole one. It’s for charity so we can’t afford to give discounts.”
Nigel pulled his wallet back out and handed over the cash. “I’d love to help in some way. I don’t suppose you need a website, do you?”
“Is that your line of business?” When Nigel nodded, Marjorie pursed her lips in thought. “What about a fundraiser page? For online donations. Is that something you could organise?”
The man clapped his hands together and nodded. “I sure can. Do you have any photos of the orphans looking sad?”
“They’re foster children,” Marjorie corrected. “And no.”
“There are some photographs from last year’s event on the community centre website.” Esme followed Nigel through to a home office with computer equipment all around. It reminded Marjorie of Braden’s house, though Nigel kept things tidier.
Esme typed in an address and pulled up a range of images from the previous year. “Would they work?”
“They’ll do nicely.” Nigel sat and started to type furiously on the keyboard. “Why don’t you swing by again in an hour? I sh
ould have the main page mapped out by then. If you’re happy with the appearance, I can get it live tonight. When’s the deadline?”
“We’ll need the funds in the account by Tuesday morning if we’re to have any hope of driving to Christchurch for the presents and getting back in time to wrap them.” Marjorie glanced at Esme. “Unless there’s something else I haven’t thought of?”
“If I put the cut-off at Monday for donations, that should stream them into the account in time. Do you have the community centre bank number?”
“Nope. But I can call Allie to find out and bring it by later.”
“Great.” Nigel tapped away at the keyboard for a few seconds. “Anything that comes in after the deadline can go towards next year. The event will happen again then, yeah?”
“I suppose.” Marjorie thought of Allie’s sadness when she’d met up earlier in the week and her outburst that morning, so out of character. “And if not, we can always donate them to another worthy cause. No one’s in this to make money.”
“Cool, cool. I’ll put a note to that effect.” Nigel flapped his hands at them. “Get on, now. Let me concentrate on my work.”
It only took another dozen houses for Marjorie to sell out and by then, Esme was flagging. “Let’s get on home so I can show Jerry I survived unmolested. You can also phone Allie for the bank account details before we get back to Nigel’s.”
Based on Jerry’s reaction when they returned home, he’d been expecting a call to the morgue to identify Esme’s body. While Marjorie hid a grin, he lavished her with praise and affection until she warded him off with both hands.
A similar reaction awaited Marjorie, but the tribe of kittens were easier to distract with a few judicious shakes of the kibble container. While they fed, she called Allie and got the details for Nigel, only mentioning the website rather than her and Esme’s contribution to the fund.
Monkey Business quickly finished his dinner and lounged next to her on the sofa as she stretched out her legs. Although it wasn’t a long distance back to Nigel’s, she wondered if Esme would mind taking the car. In the few minutes she’d been resting, large knots had formed in the muscles of her calves and they required judicious massaging to avoid turning into cramps.
Lykoi Larceny Page 5