Flushing, Margaret mentally chastised herself. What was wrong with her today? Her thoughts had certainly taken a harsh turn. She seemed to suspect the worst from everyone.
“Amen.”
She looked up to see Earl bestowing a benevolent smile upon the mourners, looking extremely pastoral in his raincoat with his dark suit and tie peeking out at the collar.
“May God bless you as you go.”
People filed out of the tent, umbrellas popping open here and there. The police officers watched until almost everyone was gone then slipped quietly away after a polite nod in her direction. Margaret made her way toward Earl, who stood talking quietly to the funeral director. Most funerals ended with a gathering at the home of the surviving family so the attendees could share their condolences personally while they ate a meal provided by neighbors and church members. Since Alice’s only relative, a niece, hadn’t made the trip from California, Earl and Margaret canvassed the Prime Timer class and made the decision to forgo the usual post-funeral meal. After the policeman’s questions this morning, skipping another potluck seemed like a very good decision.
Lyle Howard, a church member and Alice’s attorney, approached to shake Earl’s hand at the same time Margaret arrived at the front of the tent.
“Second-best funeral I ever attended, Pastor,” Lyle said.
Margaret raised one eyebrow. “Second best?”
“When I was a sophomore in college, my friend Kevin O’Connor’s grandfather died. They had a genuine Irish wake for the old guy. Of course—” he winked in her direction “—that was in my wilder days.”
Margaret grinned. “Of course!”
“Thank you for arranging the service,” Lyle told Earl. “Everything was very nice.”
“Margaret did most of it.” Earl shrugged a shoulder. “I just showed up and did what she told me to do.”
“It was no problem,” Margaret assured Lyle. “If there’s anything else I can do to help settle the estate, just let me know.”
“Actually, there is. Not with the estate—it’s going to be fairly straightforward. Mrs. Farmer left everything to her niece, who wants me to set up an estate auction. But Ms. Baker did say if the church could use anything from the house, particularly her clothes and personal items, they’re welcome. Otherwise, I’ve been instructed to take them to the Salvation Army. If you want to help, you can find someone to go through the house and see if there’s anything you’d like to take for the poor box or the ladies’ rummage sale and then donate the rest.”
Margaret could think of nothing less appealing than going to Alice’s house and pawing through her clothes. But she pasted a rueful grin on her lips. “I’ll see to it.”
“There’s no hurry. We won’t get an auction arranged for at least a month or two.”
He nodded a farewell and, clutching his collar tightly against the steady downpour, dashed out of the tent and down the gently sloping hill toward his car. Soon the only people left were two men in work clothes who hovered beneath a nearby tree, obviously anxious for them to leave so they could finish the burial and get out of the wet.
Margaret looped arms with Earl and drew close beneath the cover of his umbrella as they sloshed through the wet grass toward their car.
“You did a good job,” she told him, squeezing his arm.
He chuckled. “Mrs. Watkins told me she was glad she got to hear me preach a funeral before she died. Now she won’t worry that I’ll botch hers too badly.”
“Who’s that, Earl?” Margaret nodded toward a gray car with fogged windows parked behind their Buick.
“Looks like Jackie’s car,” he said, squinting to see inside.
The driver’s window opened a few inches. A pair of lips appeared.
“Psst, Pastor Palmer. Margaret. Over here.”
Margaret arched her eyebrows at Earl, who shrugged. They veered toward the car. At their approach, the window opened a few more inches to reveal dark sunglasses beneath a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap.
“Jackie, is that you?”
“Shh! Someone will hear you.”
Margaret looked around the empty cemetery. “There’s no one here.”
“Oh.” A brief pause, and then Jackie’s lips twisted with suppressed sobs. “Do you have a minute? I…I need to talk to someone.”
“Would you like to come back to the parsonage?” Earl gave her a soothing smile. “I’m free for the rest of the day.”
Sniffling, Jackie nodded. Margaret and Earl exchanged a glance.
“Earl, you run along and we’ll be there directly. I’m going to ride with Jackie.”
Earl walked her around to the passenger side and opened the door for her. Jackie picked up a pile of papers and threw them unceremoniously into the backseat, where they were immediately lost in the clutter. Margaret had no sooner seated herself and closed the door than the car leaped forward, speeding down the narrow driveway and taking the curves much faster than she liked. She hastily snapped her seat belt, her heart rate picking up speed along with the car. At the cemetery’s entrance, she was thrown sideways as Jackie turned left onto the main road without even slowing down.
“You missed the funeral,” Margaret said as she clutched the door handle.
“I couldn’t go.” A sob broke the last word in two. “I can’t show my face around those people ever again.”
Jackie turned a corner at forty-five miles per hour. Margaret gasped. Could the young woman see through the fogged windshield and those dark glasses?
“Slow down, dear,” Margaret managed. “You’re making me nervous.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Jackie tapped the brakes until they were down to thirty, and Margaret let out a sigh of relief. “Now what’s this about not being able to show your face? It’s the casserole, isn’t it?”
“Oh, Margaret!”
Jackie sobbed and slammed on the brakes. Margaret grasped the seat belt that stopped her from plastering her face on the windshield. Jackie covered her face with her hands, crying, as Margaret glanced through the rear window. The steady downpour made visibility difficult. Not a good time to stop in the middle of the street.
“Why don’t you pull over to the side of the road so we can talk?”
Jackie proceeded to do as she asked, then collapsed across the steering wheel, knocking her cap to the floor. Relieved to be out of the way of traffic, Margaret said, “Now listen, Jackie. No one will blame you. Alice’s death was not your fault.”
“The police don’t agree.” Fear showed through the tears in her eyes. “Do you think I’ll be arrested?”
“Of course not! I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for Alice’s death, and that detective will find it.”
For a moment, the confidence Margaret poured into her voice seemed to soothe the girl. At least her crying slowed and she gave a slight nod. But then her face crumpled with another wail.
“The police have probably visited half the congregation this morning. I just know everyone is talking about my spiral pasta casserole being what killed Mrs. Farmer. How will I ever be able to walk into church again? How will I ever be able to bring food to another potluck? Everyone will be afraid of me. I knew I shouldn’t have cooked anything. I’m going to be known as Typhoid Jackie!”
She jerked the glasses off and threw them into the back seat with force.
“Nonsense. There is not a person in the church who wouldn’t eat what you cook, me included. You’re making too big a deal over this.”
“B-but the church gossips—”
“—are having a great time speculating on who really killed Alice. At the funeral home I heard it blamed on a neighbor who was upset about a tree Mrs. Farmer cut down. I also heard speculation about the manager of the grocery store because she complained about the high prices of his produce. And someone mentioned her niece in California needing money to support her drug habit. My favorite was the prankster teenagers who thought the mushrooms were hallucinogenic and wanted to watch Mrs. Farmer �
�tripping.’ But no one—not one person—said anything about you.”
Jackie sat up and sniffed. “Really?”
“Really. But you can bet they’re going to start talking about you soon.”
“What do you mean?”
Margaret leaned toward the younger woman. “If you suddenly stop coming to church, they’re going to wonder what you have to hide.”
Margaret reached into her purse and pulled out a tissue, which Jackie took. “I guess you’re right.”
“Of course I am. Now the best thing you can do is come to church on Sunday, just like always. Hold your head up high and tell anyone who asks that you hope they catch the creep who had the nerve to use your casserole to commit such a terrible crime.”
Jackie gave her a weak smile, eyes reddened but dry. “Thank you, Margaret. I feel a lot better.”
“I’m glad. Now take me home and we’ll have a nice, hot cup of tea. This rain has me shivering like a wet dog.”
Rain pelted against Jackie’s bedroom window. No fair! Saturdays should be sunny. Why couldn’t rain come during the week, when everybody was at work?
She pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and Linus, curled against her side, gave an irritable grumble at being suddenly buried. She shoved him gently.
“Go sleep in the windowsill like a normal cat.”
Displaying his typical disregard for her requests, he crept out from between the sheets and curled into a comfortable ball on the far corner of the mattress to resume his slumber.
Jackie stared at the window, watching tiny waterfalls slide down the glass against the backdrop of a gloomy gray sky. She should have gone to the funeral yesterday. Margaret was right in saying everyone would be talking about her absence and wondering why Jackie Hoffner was too embarrassed to show up. She’d just given them something else to talk about, another reason to link her name to Mrs. Farmer’s death. As usual, she had done the wrong thing.
Who cares what they think, anyway?
She rolled over, turning her back to the window. Did it matter if people like Beverly Sanders whispered about her behind her back? Not in the least. She’d waltz into that church tomorrow with her head high and ignore them all. She’d done that plenty of times.
Like back in school, when she came into the lunchroom and the girls at the table by the door fell quiet. Or worse, giggled as they looked at her discount-store jeans and T-shirt. Aunt Betty couldn’t afford to spend good money on fancy clothes like the other girls wore. And Jackie wouldn’t have wanted her to, anyway. Clothes didn’t matter.
Of course, clothes weren’t the only thing the other girls in high school had talked about behind her back. No matter how hard she tried to fit in, Jackie always managed to say something stupid. Once she’d joined a cluster of classmates standing in the hallway outside Mrs. Kavanaugh’s room her sophomore year, talking about some hot guy named Justin Timberlake. Jackie had asked innocently, “Who’s that, a new kid?” Even now, the memory of the looks they turned her way, the rolled eyes, the snickers, made her cringe.
“He’s a lousy singer anyway.”
She sniffled into her pillow. Friendships back then had been too hard to figure out. She got along better with Aunt Betty’s friends. Older people didn’t care if you wore clothes that had gone out of style five years ago.
But Jackie wasn’t a teenager anymore. You’d think at twenty-four she’d be able to make friends with women her own age. There were several at church she could spend time with, if she wanted to. Maybe go to a movie or shopping. Instead, what was she doing? Running over to an eighty-year-old’s house to do a good deed that only got her into trouble.
Irritated at the turn her thoughts had taken, Jackie sat up in bed. She pulled Linus into her lap and stroked his fur until he began to purr.
No matter what Margaret said, her name would be linked to Mrs. Farmer’s death until the police caught the killer. Who would want to hang out with Typhoid Jackie?
“And I know that detective thinks I had something to do with it.”
The memory of his arrogant smile, his direct stare as Trooper Walsh searched her refrigerator made her jaw tighten. Would they even bother looking for other suspects while they wasted time trying to find traces of poisonous mushrooms on her kitchen utensils? Probably not. Even an idiot could see that the poisonous mushrooms had been added after Mrs. Farmer got home with the leftover portion of her casserole. Otherwise they’d have people dropping dead—or at least getting sick—all over the church. But it looked as though the police were going to drag this thing out for months by running tests and chasing false hunches that led to dead ends.
If she was in charge, she’d handle things differently. She’d go visit all the old ladies in the church. They’d talk to her, she was sure of that. Old people liked to talk to young women. In fact, she’d talk to all the women in the church, even the younger ones. They’d open up to her like they never would to that conceited detective.
Jackie’s hand stopped midstroke and rested on Linus’s arched back. That wasn’t a bad idea, actually. Women would talk to her, would tell her things Detective Conner and Trooper Walsh could never find out. She could probably have this case solved in a matter of days.
But she couldn’t just show up at people’s houses and say, Excuse me, but do you know who poisoned Mrs. Farmer? She’d have to lead into it casually. Since she was new to the church, she really didn’t have the kind of relationship with anyone that would allow for a social visit.
But Margaret didn’t need an excuse. The pastor’s wife could show up on anyone’s doorstep for a casual chat, and no one would think a thing about it. And if Jackie just happened to tag along…
She jerked the blanket aside and Linus leaped out of her lap as she turned to put her feet on the floor. She’d do it! Somehow she would convince Margaret to help her, and she would track down the killer.
Then, when she had cleared her name, maybe she could even start gossiping about one of those stupid reality shows on television.
“Please, Margaret. You’ve got to help me. I can’t do it without you.”
Jackie stood in the cookie-scented front room of the parsonage later that afternoon, staring into the stunned faces of Pastor Palmer and his wife.
The pastor’s gaze connected with Margaret’s for a second before he spoke to Jackie. “Don’t you think the police are better suited to handle the job?”
Jackie shook her head. “You saw the two who’ve been assigned to the case. That detective obviously doesn’t know what he’s doing, and Trooper Walsh is only on the case to do the detective’s grunt work.”
“Detective Conner seemed capable to me,” Margaret said.
“You didn’t see the way he acted at my apartment. He’s convinced I had something to do with poisoning Mrs. Farmer, and he’s going to spend his time chasing empty leads while the real murderer walks free.”
“But Jackie, you’re not a detective.” Margaret shook her head. “You don’t know anything about solving crimes.”
“True, but I’m a woman and I’m a member of the church. Someone is bound to know who has a grudge against Mrs. Farmer, and I think they’ll tell me.” She gave Margaret what she hoped was an imploring look. “Especially if you’re with me.”
“But what about your job? Visiting people is quite time-consuming.”
“I’ve got some vacation time coming. My boss will let me take a week off, no problem.” She spoke with more confidence than she felt. Her boss was an easygoing guy, and the rules about time off at the state government office were fairly lax, but she would have to do some fast-talking to get permission to take a week off with no notice.
Jackie clasped her hands together and held them up to her chin. “Please, Margaret.”
Margaret threw a helpless look toward Pastor Palmer, whose eyebrows had embedded themselves in his hairline. Jackie watched the silent husband-and-wife communication going on between them. Then Margaret sighed.
“I visit the church shut-i
ns on Mondays. If you’d like to tag along, I guess that’ll be okay.”
Jackie bounced on her toes, grinning at them both. “Great! Maybe we’ll have this case solved by the end of the week.”
FIVE
Jackie slumped behind the steering wheel and watched people file into the church. Yesterday’s confidence had slipped a little. Man, she dreaded going into that place. What if Beverly Sanders stood waiting inside the door? What would she say? Or worse, what if she didn’t say anything at all, but only stared from across the sanctuary, whispering with the other women about Typhoid Jackie?
I’ve got to get a grip. Margaret says they’re not talking about me at all.
But she didn’t believe it, not really. Without a doubt, Mrs. Farmer dying from potluck leftovers was the juiciest piece of gossip this church had heard in years. Of course they would discuss every aspect of the incident, and much as she hated to admit it, Jackie was an aspect.
Still, she wouldn’t accomplish anything by sitting in her car. She had her response ready. She’d practiced all morning. With a sigh, she gathered her purse and umbrella and stepped out, glancing toward the dark cloud cover overhead. Threatening but, for the moment, dry. She picked her way carefully over the gravel parking lot. The glass door opened as her foot touched the concrete sidewalk.
“Good morning,” said a cheery male voice.
Jackie looked into Bob Murphy’s smiling face. He was wearing a name tag identifying him as the day’s greeter. “Hi, Mr. Murphy.”
He leaned through the door to examine the sky. “Think it’ll hold off until we get home?”
“I doubt it.”
“Yeah, me, too. But it’s good for the garden, I suppose.”
Jackie squeezed by him into the church. She almost breathed a sigh of relief when she saw no sign of Beverly Sanders. Instead, Jean Murphy, wearing a name tag identical to her husband’s, stood beside the table with the guest book. If a visitor happened to make their way to HCC this morning, Mrs. Murphy seemed determined to ensure that their presence would be duly recorded.
Murder by Mushroom Page 4