Then we headed straight to the clubhouse. No surprise, we found Petunia 20 hours deep in a poker game with her card shark friends. Maybe this is why they lock down Washington Village after dark, I thought. The place had the vibe of a seedy underground casino in Chinatown. Only replace sleazy men and Russian criminals with little old ladies, of course.
Petunia groaned as Miss May and I approached. “Go away! I don't know you. I don't want to know you. Don't you know better than to interrupt a magnificent streak?”
Petunia's gruff rebuke was almost enough to make me hightail it back home. The florist scared me. But Miss May was not so easily deterred. “Great to see you again too, Petunia. Can we grab you for a second?”
I had a strong sense of deja-vu as we cajoled and wheedled and sweet-talked to try and get Petunia to rise from the table. But that time, Petunia would not get up from her chair, nor would she speak to us in front of the other ladies. “Not until I double my money or lose it all!”
We decided to wait. Miss May and I hunkered down in a pair of folding chairs along the wall. As the game went on, fewer and fewer women stayed at the table. Each time one of the ladies got up, Petunia shamed them. “Looks like you're a loser after all, Geraldine!”
Or she'd cut even deeper, with a personal insult like, “No wonder your son can't hold a job. His mother's a quitter!”
Every time Petunia lashed out at one of her table mates, I side-eyed Miss May. I had never conceived of an elderly woman who seemed more capable of murder. Petunia had a mean-streak, and she wasn’t shy about it. Plus, she had an inexplicably creepy crib in her old house. Shudder.
Eventually, Petunia was left alone at the table with poor, meek Ethel. They played heads-up Omaha high-low split, whatever that was. Petunia seemed eager to face off against a weaker opponent, and Ethel was no match for Petunia's aggressive style of play.
Moments into the game, Ethel ran out of cash and sadly shuffled toward the exit. But Petunia wouldn't let Ethel go quietly. Just as Ethel reached the door, Petunia called out. “Ethel! Sweetheart. Wait a moment.”
Ethel turned back, not willing to meet Petunia’s gaze.
“Look at me. Look at me when I'm talking to you.” Petunia’s voice had a cruel edge.
Ethel looked up and met Petunia's eyes.
Petunia smiled. “If you're going to the deli, I need a pound of Swiss. Sliced thin, okay sweetheart?”
Ethel exited with a subservient nod. Then, at long last, Miss May and I had our opportunity to have a private conversation with Petunia.
PETUNIA DIDN’T LOOK up from counting her winnings as we approached. “You two are still here? Wow. Pathetic. Chelsea, don't you have a man in your life? At the very least I’d expect you to have a golden retriever that enjoys your company.”
“I have a tiny horse,” I said. “See-Saw. She and I get along great.” Why am I justifying myself to this woman?!
Miss May laughed. “Oh come on, See-Saw isn’t even your horse. Honestly, Chelsea. Petunia is right. Aren't you tired of tagging along with me? It’s a little sad.”
Ouch! My lower lip protruded, and I pouted like a slapped fish. “What... what do you mean it’s sad?”
Miss May looked at me and winked. Ah. It was an act. But why? Miss May turned back to Petunia. “You see everything exactly as it is, Petunia. I've always respected that about you. You don't mince words.”
Oh. Miss May was using me to bond with Petunia. Miss May thought that if she put me down, Petunia would warm up a little. It might have been a little mean, but it was a solid strategy. And it seemed to be working.
Petunia sneered at me. “See what you're doing, Chelsea? You’re making two sweet old ladies sad. “
Petunia laughed, and Miss May joined in. Even though I knew Miss May was just playing into Petunia’s hand, I had to resist the urge to defend myself.
“So,” Petunia said. “You waited to talk to me for four hours. Why are you here? You want me to teach you the secret to Omaha high-low? ‘Cuz I’m taking that to my grave!”
Miss May shook her head and leaned forward. "Actually. We’re still working on that Linda Turtle case. We don't have any leads, and we thought you might be able to help.”
Petunia bristled. “I told you before, I didn't know those people. And I didn’t blame them for stealing my house. They seemed like real dung beetles, but I don’t know anything about them.”
“You didn’t see them poking around your house at all before they bought it? I heard they were snooping around the property before the foreclosure was even official.” News to me.
Petunia shook her head. “No. The foreclosure all happened pretty fast. Made my head spin.” Petunia tilted her chin up, her nose in the air. But I could tell, talking about her lost home tugged at her rusty old heart strings. I felt bad for her, but I also felt like I was seeing “motive” written all over her upturned nostrils.
“I see,” Miss May said. “So you never even talked to the Turtles before they took over your house?”
“I told you,” Petunia snarled. “No.”
Miss May tried to cool things down. “OK, I’m sorry. I’m just—”
Petunia stood up. “All right. I'm done here. Time to go back home and take my medicine. Ethel should be back with my thin-sliced Swiss pretty soon.”
Petunia scooped handfuls of money into her purse. Miss May watched, her lips pressed together in frustration. I could tell that Miss May was having trouble working around to the subject of the fancy fixtures, our only big clue, so I jumped in.
“Petunia, I meant to tell you before. I loved the fixtures in your apartment.”
Petunia froze. She looked up. “What's that supposed to mean?”
I shrugged. “Nothing. Just wanted to pay you that compliment. The light fixtures. The cabinet handles. The doorknobs. They look antique. Like they came from an old Colonial manor.”
Miss May glanced at me. I couldn't tell if she was happy or annoyed. My tactics were far from subtle, but I didn't want Petunia to escape.
When I look back at Petunia, she was leaning on the table for support. All the air seemed to have left her body, and she looked like a deflating balloon.
“Are you okay?” I inquired.
Petunia croaked out her next words with difficulty. “Those were my fixtures. I remember the weekend my father installed them. He had spent all his money, every nickel and dime of his savings, building that house. For my mom and us kids. It took years. When we moved in, me, my two brothers, my sister, and my mom, he didn't have any money left for the finishing touches. The place was rough around the edges. Doorknobs? Forget about it. We didn't have doors. At first, my mother was upset. She wanted to live in a real, complete house. But I loved it. The place was so open. We were all together then. No doors, nothing between us. After we had been living there two years, maybe three, my dad saving up the whole time, he came home with the most beautiful brass and copper pieces money could buy. I didn’t want our home to change at first. But watching him install all these fixtures, I understood pride. I understood hard work. I understood what it means to live in a place that’s yours.”
Petunia trailed off. She waved the memories away, like she had been silly to relive them. “Anyway. Yeah, I stole them. Good job, Watson. So what? You want to throw me in prison for rescuing my father's fixtures from those awful reptilian devils? Go ahead. They've got poker in jail.”
Miss May and I exchanged a worried look. Then Miss May turned to Petunia. “I don't think you'd go to jail for taking the fixtures but...you could tell us. If you got angry. If you, perhaps, did something else.”
Petunia straightened. “Something else? You think I snuffed those Turtles out? What kind of monster do you think I am?”
“You misunderstand, Petunia,” Miss May said. “I don’t think you’re a monster. I think plenty of people would be furious in your situation.”
“Don't try to weasel a confession out of me, May! Those fixtures are my proof I didn't kill those wretched Turtles.
I was at the house stealing those knobs and lights while you were having your little candy apple party. That's where the woman died, right?”
“That is where she died, yes,” Miss May pressed on. “But can you prove you were at your old house during that party?”
Petunia laughed. “Unbelievable. Yes. I do have proof. Ethel was my getaway driver.”
“Ethel can drive?” Foot, welcome back to my mouth.
“She’s an excellent driver, I’ll have you know,” Petunia said.
I had to suppress a laugh at the mental image of Ethel speeding away with Petunia and a bunch of pilfered doorknobs.
“Ethel would confirm this story if we talked to her?” Miss May asked.
Petunia shrugged. “Sure. Good luck, though. She can't hear, and she doesn't listen.”
“You know what?” Miss May said. “We've caused enough trouble. We don’t have to talk to Ethel right now. We’ll see ourselves out.”
“Good. Do that.” Petunia resumed shoveling her winnings into her purse, and Miss May and I walked away.
As soon as Miss May and I got out of earshot, I had a million questions. Why didn't we force Petunia to show us real proof? Why hadn’t we pressed her about Reginald? Why weren't we on our way to talk to Ethel?
But as usual, Miss May had a plan. She charged straight to the guard station at the entrance. “We’re ready to check out,” Miss May said the man. He nodded and handed my aunt the check-in book.
Miss May took the book and walked straight to the car. Then she got in, and we drove away.
21
Farm to Table
AS SOON AS WE EXITED Washington Village, I leafed through the big book, looking for a clue. If Petunia had checked in or out the night Linda died, that would tell us a lot about whether or not she could have committed the murder. Obviously, Petunia could have snuck out if she’d really wanted to, but this book could still have a clue.
Just as I was about to flip to the page with the dates in question, Miss May's phone rang. “Teeny!” Miss May said as she answered. “You got us just as were about to find an important clue. Or not. Not sure yet.”
A voice came over the line, shrill and excited and Teeny in every way. Miss May laughed.
“OK. OK. We won't open the book until we get there.” Miss May looked at me and shrugged.
“Miss May! Are you kidding?”
Miss May hung up with Teeny and turned to me. “It's just a few minutes. Relax.”
I was so eager to peek in the book, the “few-minutes” drive felt like it took six lifetimes. Then, after an interminable trek, we finally arrived at Teeny's restaurant.
When we entered Grandma’s, the place looked more formal than it ever had. White tablecloths were on every table. Fancy China decorated each place setting. And classical music drifted out of the speakers, replacing the usual Patti LaBelle.
Teeny approached, wringing her hands. “Hey! What took you so long?”
“Time slowed down,” I muttered.
“Forget about that,” Miss May said. “What the heck happened in here? It looks like you serve fine French cuisine. And what are the waiters wearing? Are those tuxedos?”
Teeny giggled. “I told Petey he could take over the restaurant for the rest of the week. Remember how he wants to be a chef now? You have to support these kids in their dreams.”
“That's nice,” I said. “But what's with the tuxes?”
“Ah, they’re just t-shirts that look like tuxes,” Teeny said. “Petey wants to do an upscale thing.”
Miss May shook her head. “Have you thought this through, T? The people of Pine Grove tend to feel uh, alienated when things are too fancy.”
“You think I don't know the people in this town?” Teeny asked. “I'm supporting Petey. I told him all about what people in Pine Grove want. But he insisted. So I’m going to let him learn that lesson the hard way. Freed up the rest of my week to investigate with the two of you.”
I smiled. “Ohhhh. You let him do this because you want to sleuth around town. You're not supporting him!”
“Can't I do both?” Teeny asked.
Miss May and I laughed, just as Petey rushed passed us carrying a sad-looking soufflé on a silver platter. He was sweating nuclear warheads. And he almost slipped in his own perspiration as he rushed to deliver the soufflé to Humphrey, one of Teeny’s elderly regulars.
We watched as Humphrey received and then poked at the soufflé, casting a suspicious glance up at Petey.
Teeny leaned in to me and Miss May and whispered, “I told Petey that Humphrey likes fancy cheeses and exotic cuisine. Truth is, Humphrey hasn't eaten anything other than pancakes since Vietnam!”
We watched Petey and his staff serve a few more odd-looking dishes, then Teeny led us over to our favorite booth in the restaurant, and we got down to business.
“OK,” Teeny said. “What's up with this investigation? What’s the big new clue?”
Miss May held up the guest book that she had stolen from Washington Village. “Voila!”
Teeny grabbed the book and opened it. She thumbed down the ledger lines and leaned in to get a close look. She muttered to herself as she read.
“Uh, Teeny,” I said. “Do you know what you’re looking for?”
Teeny looked up. “Of course I do!”
“And?” Miss May prodded.
“OK, fine, I don’t know,” Teeny tossed the book down. “What is this book?”
“It's the check-in and check-out book from Washington Village,” I said.
Teeny nodded. “Oh. In that case what I see is that old people go out later than I thought.”
“You’re technically old enough to live in Washington Village, you know,” Miss May said.
“Age is just a number,” Teeny said. “And numbers don't matter to me. Unless they're followed by the words ‘percent off.’”
Miss May reached out and took the book from Teeny. “Let me see that. We’re looking for the records from the date Linda Turtle was murdered.”
Miss May flipped back a few pages. Then she pointed. “Here it is!” Miss May put on her glasses to get a better look. She thumbed down the ledger, just as Teeny had.
“Do you see anything?” I asked, impatient to learn the book’s secrets. “Did Petunia check herself out of the night that Linda died?”
Miss May took off her glasses. “Petunia did check out that night.”
Teeny gasped. “So that sweet little flower lady is a killer?”
“She’s not sweet,” I replied.
“Keep it down,” Miss May said. “I didn't say Petunia did it. In fact, the opposite could be true. This might be Petunia’s alibi. Petunia told us that she went out that night. She claimed that she broke into the Turtles’ house and that she was there at the time Linda was killed.”
Teeny rubbed her eyes. “So Petunia's alibi for not killing Linda is that she was breaking and entering? That's not ideal for her.”
“It's worse than that,” I said. “This evidence here? The check-in books? It doesn't prove that she was at the Turtles’ house at all. It only proves that she went out the night Linda was killed. That's not an alibi. It's almost incriminating.”
“It would be incriminating. Except for one important detail,” Miss May said.
“What do you mean?”
Miss May handed me the ledger. “Take a closer look.”
I reviewed the page, looking for a clue. Miss May smirked as she watched me. She seemed to take pleasure in my confusion.
“The answer is right there in front of your face, Chelsea,” Miss May said. “If someone checks out that means they have to...”
“Check back in!” I looked at the opposing side of the page on the ledger. There, in black and white, was the check-in page for the night that Linda was killed. I scanned the names on the list and stopped when I came to Petunia.
“She checked back in before the hoedown even started! There's no way she could have been at that party to kill Linda.”
&nb
sp; “Unless she poisoned the apples earlier that day,” Teeny said.
Miss May shook her head. “Not possible. The apples hadn’t been made until that afternoon and Petunia was not on the orchard. We would have seen her. The apples never left my or KP’s sight between the bakeshop and the event barn.”
“But somebody poisoned Linda’s apple,” I countered.
“It had to be later on, once the apples were in the barn,” Miss May said.
Teeny let out a sigh of relief and wiped the back of her hand against her forehead. “Thank goodness, Petunia isn't a killer. I couldn’t sleep at night if I knew all the floral decorations I had ever bought had been arranged by a psychopath.”
“Hold on,” I said. “What about on the night of Reginald's death? Had Petunia checked out then?”
Miss May held up a finger and flipped through the pages of the book. She stopped after a few pages and scanned with her thumb again. Teeny and I watched on the edge of our proverbial booth seats.
“She was home all night," Miss May said. “Didn't go out or in.”
“Probably stayed holed up in that weird little flower den she’s got,” Teeny said. “That place gives me the creeps.”
“You haven’t even been there!” I said.
“But you told me about it,” Teeny said with a shudder.
“Well, she was probably gambling all night in the clubhouse anyway,” I said.
“Of course,” Ms. May said. “That's always a possibility.”
Teeny crossed her arms over her chest. “Hold on a second! Petunia’s still playing cards down at the clubhouse? She told me they banned poker, and nobody plays anymore!”
Miss May and I exchanged a look.
“No comment,” Miss May said. “Besides, we have a bigger problem to solve right now.”
“What problem could be bigger than me getting kicked out of that poker game? I loved those all-nighters! Plus, I always won.”
“And I think we've just discovered when you stopped getting invited to the games.” I said.
“Those little old ladies were easy money!” Teeny said. “It’s not my fault they don’t know how to play.”
Candy Apple Killer Page 12