by Carol Schaal
“What are you doing?” I jerked back, surprised, my hip hitting the desk. “Just looking at the cute piggy bank,” I said, turning to see Sarah walking toward me, her bloodshot eyes narrowed with anger. “I thought maybe you could show me how it works.” I put the bank back and hurriedly gathered the papers that had slipped to the floor and handed them to Sarah.
“Oh, jeez, I’m sorry. You, it’s just that you reminded me of when Mom, when she snooped through my stuff. That, that’s why I finally put a lock on the door leading up here.” Sarah stuffed the papers into one of the drawers and gave me a rueful smile. “Not your fault. I’m just, just a little on edge. I really am sorry.”
“No need to apologize. I get it. But if you demonstrate how the pig picks up the coin, all is forgiven. And then let’s have some bagels.”
“It hasn’t worked in ages,” Sarah said. “It’s silly, but I, I love this thing. My dad got it for me when I was a kid. When I look at it I remember how he would put a penny in it, and we would laugh and laugh at the action.
“I wish it still worked, but the lever in the back it, it broke off.” She set the bank back on the desk. Although sad, her remembrance broke the tension in the room.
“I didn’t know you had such a flair for interior design,” I told her. “And maybe if you put your gift to work downstairs, you might feel comfortable there again.” My grief-counseling skills were minimal, but I knew Aunt Raelynn would approve of my attempt to cast a positive light on what I could only see as a dreadful option. If Sarah said she planned on moving, I would have given her a positive pep talk.
“It’s a career I once thought I should check out, but well, life, life happens, and plans change.”
Frank’s warning about Sarah came back to me. I hesitated then decided to take advantage of her current vulnerability. If she had plans that meant she was moving on and would not start a legal fight for ownership of what everyone had assumed would eventually be her store, I’d be glad to hear them. “You still could, you know. Looks like you already have the eye for it, and I bet there are classes you could take.”
Sarah swept her arm around, encompassing the room. “I can do this but, but I’m no good at marketing myself. I can sell stuff to tourists, and I do a good job at it, you should know, but, but selling my expertise, selling myself,” she paused, “it didn’t work in my personal life so well, you know, so I don’t have high hopes.”
Despite Frank’s warning, none of that sounded like a threat to my ownership of Bathing Beauty.
“I don’t want to rush you,” I said later, as I stood at the back door of the house, digging out my car keys, “but do you know when you want to come back to the store? I could use your help on some last-minute decorating and the look of our website and the new sign.”
A small smile lit Sarah’s face. “Oh, you didn’t approve the sign yet? I so wanted to help with that. Maybe, perhaps early next week? Is, is that soon enough? It will be good to keep busy after the funeral.” The happy look left her face at the mention of a funeral.
During the drive back to Alleton, I berated myself for my insensitive questioning. I also wondered why Sarah was so freaked when she saw me at her desk. That little incident reminded me of what Kylie had said: “We all have our secrets.”
6
The lights in the Tomlinsons’ Wooden Block, on a side street around the corner and several buildings down from Bathing Beauty, were on, even though the store closed the last three weeks of January. I made a quick detour there before going to my own shop. When I peered in the window, I saw Tami by a rear wall, shelving boxes of some merchandise, and I pounded on the door. Tami turned, then walked to the front when she saw me.
“Thought you were a customer wanting to look around,” Tami said when she opened the door. “A big closed sign doesn’t always mean a thing to some people. But come on in, I need a break.” She wiped her hands on her baggy navy-blue sweatpants, leaving a trail of dust. “Want something to drink?”
“I’m good, thanks. What I do want is a favor. Sarah’s busy with her mom’s funeral, and I need to hire someone to help stock the inventory and paint the woodwork. Do you know if D.J. might be available?”
The mention of her son’s name made Tami smile. The poor woman might have a bad marriage, but she and Dennis had a fine son to show for the pairing. D.J., who was working on a master’s degree in chemical engineering, usually had January free, unless he was involved in a research project.
“He’s doing something for Kylie right now, but he’ll be back in a couple hours,” Tami told me. “I’ll have him call you. Pretty sure he’d be happy to earn a little spare cash.”
She sighed. “Sorry about what you went through with Bernice. That’s awful. I’m also sorry you had to hear me and Dennis fight. I know you were at the January Doldrums gathering the other day, saw you peeking around the corner. Didn’t mean to scare you off.”
“Wasn’t your fault, Tami. I was in a rush to get to Bernice’s. Anyway, turns out I was too late.” The memory of how I found her made me blink away tears.
“Ahh, you can’t take the blame for that one. You was nice to her. Think of that.” She twisted the bottom hem of her sweatshirt. “Don’t feel bad about me neither. I’m a lot stronger than people give me credit for.”
“Deal,” I told her, and as I left Wooden Block, I thought of the times Aunt Raelynn and I would dance around her dining room table shouting the words to “I Will Survive,” one of my aunt’s favorite songs, an old disco hit by Gloria Gaynor that celebrated the power of women.
I made it back to Bathing Beauty just as a delivery van showed up with the first round of my new inventory. Boxes and boxes of private label organic body care products, all with environmentally friendly packaging. That had been Sarah’s suggestion. The shop’s former product line hadn’t been selling well, and she suggested the change might help.
“They are pricier,” she’d told me, “and my mom didn’t want to put out the cash, but the old way wasn’t working anymore.” I had run the numbers on what had been selling at the store the past three years and decided the bigger outlay was worth the risk. Sarah was thrilled that I took her advice, and I was pleased that my research backed up her gut reaction to what the customers might want.
A knock on the shop door interrupted my whirlwind attempt at unpacking boxes. The store was set to open in a little over four weeks, and I was starting to get nervous about meeting the time. Seeing Detective Maccini at the door, wearing a heavy leather jacket over dress blues, did nothing for my mental state.
When I opened the door, the officer handed me a carrier holding two cups of coffee. “Ms. Andrews, got a minute? I got coffee.”
I motioned to the stacks of boxes. “I am kind of busy, but sure, I have a little time.”
Maccini pulled off his jacket, and he and I each took one of the chairs I’d previously pulled into the front of the shop from my minuscule office. He surprised me with a big smile. “Good news! That cat, what’s the name? Eliot? Strange name. Anyway, one of my officers was just at the farmhouse, taking pictures, checking distances, all that kind of stuff, and when he was done he saw this big ole cat sitting by the kitchen door. Probably wanted to be fed. He knocked on the door, I mean the officer, not the cat, and when Sarah saw what the officer was holding it apparently was like the second coming. So, the cat is back.”
I let out a whoop of glee. “Oh, good! I was there this morning, and it was too sad. This doesn’t make up for losing her mom, but it has to make Sarah feel better.”
My euphoria lasted about a minute. “Got a bit of not-so-good news, too,” Maccini said. “Some tests came back. Seems Mrs. Mullins ingested a lot of sleeping pills. But we didn’t find anything like that in her house. Which means I gotta check. Do you know if she ever took those things?”
The friendly counselor was starting to look a bit more like a police officer. I frowned and shook my head. “Bernice never mentioned sleep problems to me. I do know she was an early riser.
When we were working out the terms of the business deal, she’d sometimes call me at 6:30 in the morning, but she always sounded bright and together. Don’t sleeping pills leave people tired, even in the morning?” I realized I was talking too much, so I picked up the coffee cup and took a sip.
That wasn’t the end of the detective’s revelations.
“Here’s a couple other things. Remember my asking what you saw on the kitchen counter? You said you didn’t remember, but you put those appetizers you brought right next to a plate of cookies.”
His “You said you didn’t remember” statement took me aback, his wording making it sound like he didn’t believe me.
“Well, we tested a bunch of stuff we found in the kitchen, including that plate of cookies. Odd thing. A couple of those cookies included something extra. Appears the pastry chef added liquid sleeping medicine to the recipe. But not to all of them. Huh.
“Sarah says her mom was not a baker. And we found no sign that Bernice made those cookies.” He drank some coffee and cocked his head at me.
My unease was quickly turning into fear. First Maccini asks a seemingly innocent question about Bernice taking sleeping pills, then he drops the news about the cookies. I sat taller in the chair, looked him straight in the eye, and hoped I looked interested in his remarks but not the least bit guilty. And now I understood his interest in my whereabouts during the day on Sunday.
“You know, Lauren, after the tox screen but before we tested the cookies, we didn’t know if we were looking at an accidental overdose, a suicide or, well, worst case, somebody wanted poor Bernice dead.”
He paused for a few seconds, just staring at me. “Now we know. Huh. Think of that. Someone enjoyed cookies and tea with Bernice, ate the safe ones and gave her the poisoned ones. Not sure how she ended up outside. But we do know one thing for sure.
“It was murder.”
The world seemed to shrink to hold just the two of us: Maccini leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed over his belly, still gazing at me, and me, speechless and horrified by the thought of a poisonous soul deliberately taking Bernice’s life. I wanted to strike out at him, at anyone, wanted this nightmare to stop.
Maccini made the first move. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small notebook and pen, now fully a police officer.
“Got more questions now, things I didn’t know to ask when I got your statement.” His manner was calm, the opposite of what I was feeling. “People around here called Bernice the Dragon Lady, and it seems lots of people disliked her. You did a major business deal with her. I’d like to hear about that, maybe see some paperwork, get a feel for your history with her.”
His words jarred me from my speechless state. I held up a hand. “Whoa, give me a minute.” Just as I had in the county police’s interview room, I flashed back to the time a police officer in Florida had grilled me about my relationship with Drew. That detective didn’t seem to care that I was so heartbroken over my husband’s death I could barely put a coherent sentence together. The memory brought tears to my eyes, but when I finally looked over at Maccini, I was beyond crying.
“Do I need a lawyer?”
Now it was Maccini’s turn to look surprised. “Well, I’m not accusing you or anything” — I could hear the unspoken word “yet” — “so I’m not sure why you would ask that, maybe you been watching way too many cop shows on TV. But hey, if you feel the need, go for it.”
I thought for a few seconds, then gave him what I hoped was a defiant glare. “I didn’t know then that people called her the Dragon Lady, but I think that’s only because she spoke her mind. We reached what we both thought was a fair deal, and my lawyer worked out the details.”
I pulled a business card and pen out of my purse, checked my cell phone for a number, then carefully printed a name and the number on the back of the card.
“Here’s the name and contact info of the business attorney I used. I’ll let him know he can speak to you. Feel free to call and ask your questions.” I handed the card to Maccini and pointed to the door. “Now I’d like you to leave.” The detective stared at me, his face unreadable, got up, put on his coat, and walked over to and out the shop’s front door, letting in a blast of winter’s unrelenting chill.
I got up, too, and when he reached the sidewalk, I leaned out the doorway and called his name. He looked back. “Detective Maccini, two more things. Thank you for the coffee. And here’s a tip. I prefer tea. A good investigator should have known that.”
Maccini lifted a gloved hand in a salute, turned, and continued down the sidewalk. I closed the front door and beat my fist against it.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I berated myself out loud. Why was I alienating the police? My anger against Maccini’s insinuations was mixed with my fear that a stone-cold killer was out there, and it might be someone I knew.
7
I sped to my SUV after Thursday’s funeral service for Bernice so I could get out of the lot before the line of cars started the slow trip to the cemetery. Earlier, I’d told a weeping Sarah I was skipping the post-funeral lunch to do some work at the shop but would be at that evening’s private wake.
“I’m, I’m looking forward to being with friends,” she said. “My only remaining relative is a distant cousin, Edward, and he and I barely know each other, so there won’t, I won’t have any family gathering.”
The news that Bernice had been murdered, had eaten some cookies laced with a sleeping aid, had caused quite a buzz before the services started. But it was a solemn occasion, so people were deferential, talking in low tones. The minister conducting the memorial service did not call attention to the terrible fact of murder, only saying that Bernice had been called “before her time.”
Frank and Justin were opening Waves End for the invitation-only wake after their gallery’s 6 p.m. closing. “Bernice was a Dragon Lady,” Justin, whose quiet demeanor and black-frame-glasses hipster look offered a good foil to Frank’s occasional theatrics, told me when he issued the invitation, “but she was one of us. And we owe it to Sarah.”
When I arrived at my shop, D.J. was already there. He had used the key I had dropped into the Wooden Block’s mail slot the previous evening after he’d accepted my offer of employment over the phone. He’d skipped the funeral, and, since he didn’t bring it up, I guessed he hadn’t heard the news about Bernice’s death now being classified a homicide. I didn’t say anything either, not in the mood to discuss the tragic development.
D.J., wearing an old pair of jeans and ragged sweatshirt, had clearly been busy. The smell of paint hung in the air and a jumble of empty boxes covered half the floor space. Several counters held row after row of creams and lotions.
Apparently, the young Tomlinson hadn’t inherited his dad’s surly outlook on life. As I grabbed various bottles and put them in their proper slots, I found his cheeriness a welcome break from that morning’s sorrowful event. And he worked hard. I tried not to think about the short time left before the store’s grand opening — less than a month away — and Maccini’s implied suspicion hanging over my head. Damn the man.
“What do you think? Is this a good look for me?” D. J. was wearing one of the floppy hats that Sarah had said were a hit with beachgoers. With his model-perfect, square-jawed look, which didn’t appear to come from either Tami or Dennis, just about anything would look good on the tall, well-toned 23-year-old.
“I think it’s a bit too early for summer merchandise,” I said, grinning at him, “and deep purple just isn’t your color. Before you leave, why don’t you haul those empty boxes to the recycling bin? And oh, not to be too nosy, which I am about to be, but I heard you and Kylie were dating.”
“That’s going nowhere,” he said, looking inside one of the boxes as if it might magically hold a better answer. “Mom said I could learn something from her work ethic, but, I don’t know. Even when we’re together, she’s on her phone or leaving in a rush or spending the day in Chicago. I thought it could be serious, t
hen, poof, suddenly she pulled away. Guess work won out over me.”
He sighed. “I shouldn’t be so mean. Kylie spends a lot of time with Evie. That poor girl’s pretty sick, needs a lot of care, and Kylie does love her niece.”
D.J. might be protesting a bit too much, since he was hard at work on his chemical engineering degree and seemed to focus on his own future, too. “Well, things will work out or they won’t,” I said, then inwardly groaned at my weak relationship advice. Where was Aunt Raelynn when I really needed her, which was always. “So from what I’ve been hearing, it seems like you have no plans to go into the retail business. Your parents are probably disappointed.”
“Yeah, running a toy store isn’t my thing.” D.J. slit open another box. “I get that Mom and Dad are unhappy about that, but it’s not the life for me. Besides, if they want to give it up, I’m sure they could sell the business.”
“They been talking about that?”
“Nah.” D.J. laughed. “Dad jokes to Mom that he’s worth his weight in gold, but only if he’s dead, ’cause he’s got a huge insurance policy.” He grimaced. “Shoot, shouldn’t have said that. Dad would be furious if he knew I blabbed, and you know how he gets.”
I did know. But D.J.’s chatter reminded me of how my life had turned out. I looked around at the business I owned. Life insurance could be a lifesaver for those left behind.
8
The upstairs apartment of Frank and Justin’s Waves End gallery was crowded with people gathered for the wake for Bernice, soft jazz lending a soothing vibe to the event. Frank, wearing a plain apron in deference to the occasion, handed me a glass of something orange when I came around the corner from the kitchen into the main living area. “My special drink for the grieving,’’ he said, “a touch of sweetness. Sarah needs that. Still, her life might be better now that she’s not under the Dragon Lady’s thumb.”