by Gayle Leeson
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Chapter Fifteen
S
helly lived in a small, white house that was decorated pretty much like Jackie and I had expected: flower child bohemian meets shabby chic. Everything was pink, white, floral or lace. It actually suited Shelly, and I told her how pretty it was as we all took a seat in her living room. Much of my anger had evaporated, especially now that I saw Shelly—she really did look ill.
“Aw, I appreciate that, Amy, but it’s a mess right now.” Shelly tidied the fan of fashion magazines on her coffee table.
I didn’t see a thing out of place in the tidy home and couldn’t help but compare it to Nadine Ostermann’s kitchen where I’d had to clean off a chair in order to sit down.
“Gee, I think it looks great,” Jackie said. “When I’m sick, my apartment looks like a pig sty.”
“We were going to bring you some food,” I said, “but we were afraid to without knowing what’s wrong. We came to see how you are, not make matters worse.”
“Right.” Jackie leaned forward. “So, what’s wrong—stomach bug, cold, sore throat, migraine?”
“None of that.” Shelly looked down at her clasped hands. “The truth is I’m not sick... unless you count heartsick. But this morning, it was simpler to say I was sick than to get into a long, drawn-out explanation. I’m sorry I lied.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Tell us what’s going on.”
“It’s my mother.” Shelly twisted her hands in her lap. “A while back, I started to notice some changes in her. Her hands were trembly, she was tired all the time, and she was starting to shuffle when she walked.” She looked up at the ceiling for a moment to try to stem her tears. “When I asked her about it, she told me that was all part of getting old. But I knew better. When I hit forty, I started reading everything I could get my hands on about aging and slowing down the process.”
“Granny is older than your mom, and she doesn’t have any of those symptoms,” Jackie said.
Shelly nodded. “I called Dr. Bennett’s office last night expecting to get an answering machine or something, but he answered. We talked, and he told me it sounded like Parkinson’s and that he’d refer Mama to a neurologist. Later on, he called me back and told me he’d arranged for his friend—a neurologist in Abingdon—to see her at ten-thirty this morning.”
“Did the neurologist confirm Dr. Bennett’s suspicions?” I asked.
Shelly’s face crumbled, and she put her hand over her mouth.
I got out of my chair and hugged her. “I’m so sorry. How can I help?”
When she was composed enough to speak, Shelly said, “I’m moving Mama in with me. She’s stubborn, but she knows she might need help from time to time.”
“Isn’t there some medication she can take? Something that will help?” Jackie asked.
“There is. Since his practice isn’t officially open yet, Dr. Bennett went with Mama and me to the neurology appointment,” Shelly said. “I was awfully glad he did. Between my being upset and listening to words I’d never heard before in my life, I was kinda shell-shocked when we left the neurologist’s office. Dr. Bennett accompanied us back to Mama’s house and explained everything to us in layman’s terms.”
“What’s the prognosis?” I asked.
“It’s a progressive condition, so there’s no cure. While many people with Parkinson’s are able to continue to live independently, I think it would be best—given her age—for Mama to move in here with me.” Shelly wiped her eyes. “It’s as much for me as it is for her. I told her I couldn’t see a minute’s peace if I had to wonder all the time if she’d fallen or something.”
“I understand completely.” I patted Shelly’s shoulder. “That’s why Mom moved into the big house with Aunt Bess after Nana died.”
“The doctor gave Mama some medication, and she has an appointment with a physiotherapist day after tomorrow. Dr. Bennett was awfully good to pull strings on Mama’s behalf.”
“It sounds like you could use a few days off to take care of your mom,” I told her.
“I hate to ask—” Shelly began.
“I insist.” I glanced at Jackie. “We’ll manage just fine for a few days.”
“I know Donna will help out when she can, but what about Saturday and the farmers’ market?” Shelly asked. “I have to be there then.”
“Let’s worry about Saturday closer to Saturday. Right now, your priority is getting your mother settled in.” I gave her another hug. “Please let us know if there’s anything we can do to help out.”
“I will,” Shelly promised.
When we got back into the car, Jackie squinted toward Shelly’s porch.
“What is it?” I asked, looking at the porch to see what Jackie might be staring at.
“Aw, nothing. I just thought a glob of your self-reproach got caught on one of Shelly’s macramé plant hangers when we walked by it.”
I gave her the old side-eye glare. “Just drive.”
THAT EVENING WHEN RYAN arrived, his eyes widened when he saw the table. We were having filet mignon, loaded baked potatoes, grilled corn on the cob, rolls, banana pudding, and chocolate peanut butter cupcakes.
“I haven’t done anything to deserve a meal like this,” he said. “What’s up?”
I kissed his cheek. “Just sit down and enjoy it while it’s still hot.”
“I can’t enjoy it if I’m wondering what’s going on with you the whole time I’m eating.”
“You act like I never make you a nice meal,” I said.
“Every meal you make for me is delicious, but this one is special. Even you have to admit that.”
“Sit down and eat.” I pulled out his chair. “Please. We can talk while we eat.”
“Ah-ha. That’s it. Here we go.” Ryan sat down. “This meal is a bribe, isn’t it?”
“Don’t look at it that way.” I sat across from him. “I just need to know how you feel about Scott...not necessarily as a person, but as a suspect.”
“You know—”
“Yes, I know you can’t discuss an ongoing investigation. But, if you were me, would you feel comfortable having Scott in the house alone with Mom and Aunt Bess?”
“No,” Ryan said, cutting into his steak. “But what reason would he have for being in the house alone with Jenna and Bess?”
I explained that earlier today Scott and Aunt Bess had been discussing the Pridemore house fire while Mom and Aunt Bess were at the café. “Aunt Bess decided that she and Scott needed to compare notes and solve the crime, so she invited Scott to the big house for lunch tomorrow.”
He stilled. “That’s not a good idea.”
“Jackie and I didn’t think so either, and since Shelly is going to be off work for a few more days and Scott has agreed to work in her place, the problem is solved for now,” I said. “But Aunt Bess won’t let this go.”
Ryan rubbed his hand over his face. “Let me get this straight. You’re not comfortable with Scott having lunch with your mom and Aunt Bess, but you trust him to work in Shelly’s place at the café?”
“Well, sure. That’s entirely different.”
“How? You don’t want a murder suspect in close proximity to people you care about,” he said. “Well, guess what? Neither do I.”
“Scott is a suspect in Gladys Pridemore’s murder?” I asked. “I knew he was under suspicion of setting the fire but not of murder. What motive could he possibly have for wanting to kill Gladys?”
“Suffice it to say, he’s one of several suspects we’re currently investigating.” He took a bite of steak. “This is good. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I buttered a roll. “Could you tell me one thing? How exactly was Gladys Pridemore killed? Ivy initially thought there might be a gas leak or something, but, specifically, what killed the woman?”
“The autopsy findings suggested carbon dioxide poisoning.”
My mind began whirring. Carbon dioxide. Plastic sealing the windows. The pot on the stove. “Dry
ice.”
“What?” Ryan asked.
“Dry ice. That’s how Ms. Pridemore was killed.”
“We came to that same conclusion, but we don’t know how the killer got the dry ice into the room.”
“I do,” I said. “I believe the person who killed Ms. Pridemore started by putting a sedative of some kind in her coffee. Then when she passed out, the murderer put a substantial block of dry ice in that Dutch oven I found on the stove. The burner was on warm, so the ice probably melted more slowly.”
“And since the room was sealed, the fumes suffocated her.” Ryan stood. “I have to call the sheriff.”
“AMY FLOWERS, I’M GONNA end up having to deputize you yet,” Sheriff Billings said, as he strode into my kitchen.
“Have a seat...and a cupcake,” I said.
“Don’t mind if I do.” The sheriff took a cupcake with one hand and pulled out a chair with the other.
I poured Sheriff Billings a glass of iced tea before I sat down. I felt glad that Ryan and I had been able to finish dinner and get the kitchen cleaned up before Sheriff Billings arrived. Ryan seemed nervous. I knew he didn’t want the sheriff to think he’d been doling out confidential information.
“Over dinner tonight, I asked Ryan if he thought it would be all right for Scott—one of the corn maze actors and a part-time server at the Down South Café—to spend time alone with my mom and Aunt Bess.” I gave a little laugh. “It appears that Aunt Bess and Scott believe that if they put their heads together, they can prove that Malcolm Pridemore set the fire in Gladys Pridemore’s basement.”
Sheriff Billings licked frosting off his fingers. “Well, in the first place, I don’t think your Aunt Bess needs any encouragement with her so-called investigating.”
“Neither do I.” I handed him a napkin. “And Ryan said that it wasn’t a good idea to have Scott visiting her at home. But I’ve solved that problem for now—he’ll be working for me tomorrow.”
The sheriff leveled his gaze at Ryan.
Ryan nodded. “See what I’m dealing with here? She doesn’t want a suspicious character alone with her mom and aunt, but she’ll pay him to be at the café.”
“How did you get onto the subject of how Gladys Pridemore died?” Sheriff Billings asked.
“When Ivy and I went back to the crime scene so I could walk her through what happened, she seemed convinced that a gas or airborne toxin was responsible for Ms. Pridemore’s death,” I said. “This, even though the spilled coffee would lead a person to surmise that the woman had drunk poison.”
“Right.” Sheriff Billings wiped his hands and mouth on a napkin. “I called Ivy before I came over and asked her if she could meet me here. She said she was in the middle of something and that I could fill her in tomorrow. Amy, she said if she has any questions for you, she’ll stop by the café.”
“Okay.” I noticed that the sheriff’s tea glass was getting low, so I got up and retrieved the pitcher from the refrigerator. “Ryan didn’t speak out of turn. I want you to know that. He flat-out refuses to discuss cases with me.”
“I know.” Sheriff Billings thanked me for the refill and took a long drink. “But sometimes we can’t help but let things slip to our loved ones; and in this instance, it’s good he did. You might’ve put an important piece of the puzzle in place for us.”
I looked at Ryan. I was still anxious to assure Sheriff Billings that Ryan hadn’t given me any sensitive information about Gladys Pridemore’s death...or, at least, nothing I hadn’t already guessed. Ryan shook his head slightly to encourage me to let it go.
Sheriff Billings took a notebook from his shirt pocket and flipped through the pages. “On the day you and Jackie found Gladys Pridemore unresponsive at her kitchen table, you mentioned that you removed a pot from a burner and turned off the stove.”
“That’s right. It struck me as odd because during the call Ms. Pridemore—or the person claiming to be Ms. Pridemore—said she was ordering food because she didn’t cook anymore. Then I entered the kitchen and found a pot on the burner.”
“What size was the pot?” he asked.
“It was a ten-quart Dutch oven, so that’s a substantial pot.” I got up and took a similar pot from the cabinet. “This is a six-quart Dutch oven.”
“So, the one at the Pridemore house was considerably bigger than that one,” Ryan said.
“Right. My theory is that Gladys Pridemore was administered some sort of sedative in her coffee,” I said. “Then her killer filled the Dutch oven with dry ice and turned the burner on low. Since the kitchen window had already been winterized, Jackie and I couldn’t even get it open to air out the room when we arrived.”
“Well, you’re right about the coffee—there were traces of sleeping pills in it.” Sheriff Billings raised his eyes from his notebook to pierce me with a stare. “You didn’t hear that.”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“There was weather stripping on the kitchen door leading to the outside and on the interior kitchen door,” Sheriff Billings continued. “That room was sealed as tight as Dick’s hatband.”
“And then somebody—most likely, the killer—called the Down South Café to ensure that Ms. Pridemore would be found,” Ryan said.
“Do you think the killer intended to scare Ms. Pridemore rather than kill her?” I asked. “I mean, if we’d been there just a little bit sooner, Ms. Pridemore might still be alive.”
“I seriously doubt that.” The sheriff patted my hand. “Don’t blame yourself, Amy. Too much damage had already been done to save Gladys Pridemore. And don’t fool yourself either. The person who poisoned the air in that kitchen is a cold-blooded killer.”
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Chapter Sixteen
D
onna wasn’t able to work on Tuesday because she was still recovering from her dental procedure. Jackie and I explained to Luis and Scott that Shelly’s mother was experiencing some health problems and that Shelly wouldn’t be in for a few days.
“I’ll be happy to fill in for Shelly for as long as you need me,” Scott said. “I enjoy the work, and I need the money.”
“Thank you, Scott.”
Walter came in then, humming Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. He swept out his arms before asking the question to which he already knew the answer. “Am I the first customer to arrive this morning?”
“Indeed, you are,” I said.
“Young man,” Walter said to Scott, “would you be so kind as to set me up with a cup of coffee while I await my lady friend?”
“Be happy to,” Scott said.
While Scott was getting the coffee, Ivy strode into the café.
“Good morning, all,” she said.
“Ivy, hi.” I started out from behind the counter.
“Oh.” Ivy’s eyes widened. “Darn. I...I just remember there’s somewhere else I have to be right now.” With that, she rushed out the door.
I turned and looked at Scott.
He shrugged and served Walter’s coffee. “Be right back to take your order.”
“Take your time,” Walter said.
I noticed that Scott was taking his phone out of his pocket as he stepped out onto the patio. I went into the kitchen, put on my headset, and called Ivy. The call went straight to voice mail. Had Ivy left because Scott was here? And, if so, could she be the person Scott had gone outside to call?
That’s ridiculous. How could Ivy and Scott possibly know each other?
I went back out into the dining room after leaving Ivy a message. When Scott came back inside, he ducked his head and got the coffee pot in order to top off Walter’s cup.
Dilly arrived as he was pouring the beverage and asked him to fill a cup for her as well. That seemed to be all it took to right Scott’s course, and he went back to normal. Or, had he been normal all along, and was I merely scrutinizing him for abnormal behavior?
I greeted Dilly and then went back into the kitchen for breakfast preparations.
IVY CALLED ME A COUPLE of hours late
r as I was scrambling eggs. Thank goodness for headsets.
“I’m sorry you had to run off without even having coffee earlier,” I said.
“Yeah...um...I’m usually not so scatterbrained. I’m having an off day.”
I barked out a laugh. “For a second, I thought Scott scared you off.”
“Oh. No.” Ivy’s words were clipped and rushed. “I spoke with Sheriff Billings last night, and he told me your theory about how Gladys Pridemore was murdered. Excellent deduction. The dissolving of dry ice on the stove would explain the odor you experienced as well as the headache and dizziness.”
“Right,” I said. “I can tell you’re in a hurry, but I’m kinda concerned. Almost everyone with a motive to harm Gladys Pridemore was at the farmers’ market on that Saturday.”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t worry about that, Amy. The vendors at the farmers’ market have nothing against you, they’re only there to make money, and there are a lot of people around. You’ll be safe.”
“Okay.” I drew out the word, confused by Ivy’s patronizing tone. “I didn’t think our lives were in danger here at the café. I’m merely uneasy that Gladys Pridemore’s killer hasn’t been caught yet.”
“I know.” Her voice softened. “We’re doing everything we can.”
HOMER’S HERO ON TUESDAY was the Scottish comedian Billy Connolly. It was apparent he was keeping things light—even to the point of affecting a terrible accent—when he quoted: “I’ve always wanted to go to Switzerland to see what the army does with those wee red knives.”
I laughed harder than I normally would have because I still felt guilty about ignoring his anger quote when I’d been furious with Shelly yesterday. I still felt guilty about my anger toward Shelly too.
HJ Ostermann hurried into the café, ignored my greeting, and stood by the door to the patio waiting for Scott to finish taking the orders of Mr. and Mrs. Martin.
HJ looked rough. His sweatshirt and jeans looked as if they’d been slept in, and his hair was sticking up all over his head.