“When the time is right, I’ll tell him, and you, and everybody.” She squeezed my hand. “Right now, I can’t.”
“There you are.” Mom tiptoed with bare feet across the lawn, holding up the sides of her flowered silk kaftan to keep the hem from dragging in the wet grass. Her red tresses were piled on top of her head in a poofy bun. “I filled a huge bowl of strawberries, melon, and kiwi to go with breakfast. Come join your dad and me. We have lots to discuss.” She waved her arm toward the door.
I grinned at Izzie then sprinted to the house. “Dibs on the strawberries!”
“That’s cheating, Chloe.”
Her footsteps grew louder as she hurried to catch up to me, which really wasn’t fair since her legs were twice as long as mine. As she flew by, I stopped in the doorway and bent over to grab my knees and catch my breath. Even Max, with his short, tiny legs, scurried ahead of me and down the hall.
Mom patted my back. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I have more strawberries and melon in the fridge.”
I straightened and gave her a hug. “You’re the best, Mom. Thank you.”
“Always trying. Now, I’m hoping you got somewhere with Izzie?” Frown lines creased her brow.
Last night we’d stayed up way past midnight, too disturbed to sleep over the shock of Fiona’s murder only a few hours before. Mom and Dad had urged Izzie to talk about where she had gone for the evening but had gotten the same answer I did this morning.
“Not even close.” I linked my arm through hers, and we walked down the hall and into the kitchen.
The sizzle of tofu bacon frying, the garlicky scent of bagels toasting, and Dad manning the kitchen made me smile. He wore his denim Chautauqua Lake Yacht Club floppy hat, complete with the signature flag logo, and Mom’s paisley print apron over his faded blue shirt and cargo shorts. Never one for stereotypes, he loved cooking, much to Mom’s delight. She’d rather spend time in her she-shed, painting one of her sunset-over-water scenes. She and Claude Monet would’ve been a perfect match.
The toaster popped out a bagel. I grabbed for the cream cheese and spread on a thick layer, then took a generous bite. “Yum.” Plucking two slices of bacon off the serving plate, I made my way to the fruit bowl.
Izzie winked as she held up her plate filled mostly with melon and grapes. “You didn’t think I’d take all the strawberries, did you?”
I ignored the teasing jab. “I think we should discuss the topic we’d all rather avoid before Detective Barrett shows up.”
“I agree.” Mom sat at the table with her fingers curled around a mug of her Earl Grey tea. “No point in denying the obvious. He will look at both you girls as suspects. Especially when Izzie refuses to explain where she was last night.” The disapproving stare darkened her eyes.
“Now, Kate.” Dad placed the bacon and bagels in the center of the table, alongside the fruit bowl, then took off his hat before sitting next to me. “How about we try and stay positive? I’m sure Barrett and his team will find plenty of evidence to prove Chloe and Izzie had nothing to do with Miss Gimble’s murder.”
Mom slanted her head. “I say it’s always better to be cautious.”
“Look at us. The Abbington Detective Agency. Too bad we haven’t a clue how to solve a murder.” I took a bite of bagel and chewed, contemplating the odds.
“Hey. At least we have plenty of suspects.” Izzie nudged Mom’s arm. “That’s one checkmark for the pro column.”
“You mean if distaste or loathing Fiona is a motive?” I shook my head. “Hardly enough to point fingers.”
Izzie scooted forward. Her eyes gleamed with excitement. “Loathing her is only a part of the equation. Think about it. Each scathing column Fiona wrote attacked one of the shop owners. Some even took a hit to their sales. I heard from Megan, who spoke to Sammy, that Gwen’s Go Fly a Kite’s profits dropped nearly twenty percent in the quarter after Fiona’s first column about her was published.”
“I warned Gwen not to write that letter to the editor.” Dad shook his head.
I frowned. “What letter?” Like starting a book in the middle of the story, I was playing catch-up.
“Gwen wrote to complain about all the negativity affecting our town,” Mom said.
Izzie cleared her throat. “Word for word, she wrote that the residents of Whisper Cove had become victims of a poisonous voice. Everyone knew who she was referring to, including Fiona, aka the poisonous voice herself.”
Dad raised his brows. “Speaking ill of the dead? Maybe we shouldn’t go there.”
Mom waved an arm to dismiss his comment. “Fiona fired back with a vengeance. She claimed a six-year-old could design better kites than Gwen.”
“Ouch.” I cringed.
“Even worse, she wrote that maybe it was time for her to retire and let a young person with fresh ideas and more talent take over.” Izzie shoved away her plate.
“Then what happened? Did Gwen fight back?” I couldn’t imagine letting such brutal criticism go unchallenged. I’d hire a lawyer to say libel had cost my business money.
“Sorry to say, Gwen went into a depressing spiral. She closed up her shop, and no one we’ve spoken to has seen her since. Her neighbors say she hardly ever leaves the house, only pops out the front door to grab her mail.” Dad carried the leftovers to the fridge.
“What about the other shop owners? Did none of them come to her defense? I’d have boycotted the newspaper or staged a protest to demand Fiona be fired.” I pounded the table with my fist. “How could she get away with her slice-’em-and-dice-’em column for so long?”
“Are you kidding?” Izzie’s eyes widened. “According to Theo, subscriptions and sales have never been better. Money talks.”
I carried my empty plate to the sink, then placed it in the dishwasher. “I feel sorry for Gwen. Seems a shame to consider her a murder suspect.” The sweet lady who always gave Izzie and me treats when we visited her shop didn’t fit the profile of a killer.
Max danced on his hind legs and twirled in circles. Taking the hint, I filled his bowl with kibble and topped the meal with a few bits of tofu bacon. He devoured his breakfast.
Mom sighed. “The authorities will have to start somewhere. If Gwen turns out to be one of the suspects, I’ll be as devastated as anyone. Shame on me, but I’m praying Detective Barrett will keep busy with plenty of other suspects to investigate. Otherwise …” She pointed at me and then at Izzie. “Time and place will bring the authorities around to look at you two.”
“What about motive?” I avoided the obvious—Izzie now owned a business too, and she disliked Fiona as much as everyone else in town, including Gwen. But I knew my sister well enough to believe she couldn’t commit such a horrible act. What seriously worried me, though, was Megan’s comment. She’d said Izzie had already been targeted by Fiona. Something had happened to fuel that fire. Would Detective Barrett add the damaging information to reasons why Izzie should be a prime suspect? Yeah, I was worried and scared for her.
As for me? That time and place thing put me on the detective’s radar for sure.
“Well, no point in worrying about it. I have better things to do with my time.” Izzie stood and plucked her phone out of her pocket. “Like making a phone call to Theo to cancel that huge and way over-the-top expensive ad for the grand opening.”
I stared at her, amazed at how she could be so dismissive. “Anyone else you can think of that’d have a strong motive and opportunity to get rid of Fiona?”
Izzie shrugged. “Who knows? This town is full of secrets. I imagine some are pretty dark and embarrassing.”
“How many times have I told you to stop listening to all the gossip your friends tell?” Mom scolded with one of her long, dragged-out sighs. “We have good people in Whisper Cove.”
“Of course we do, dear.” Dad squeezed her shoulders and then winked at me. “What if we shelve this discussion for another time and get out of here? We have a date with a beautiful vessel named No Regrets.” He pulled Mom to he
r feet.
“Guess that’s my cue to leave.” She gave us each a peck on the cheek. “We’ll be back around noon. You can reach us on the satellite radio, in case you need us.”
Dad pulled her toward the hall. “They’ll be fine. No one’s going to jail today.” He nodded at me. “We’ll return closer to dinnertime. If we’re late, there’s leftover chicken Parmesan in the fridge.”
“Why do you always disagree with me? I swear, Joe, you can be so overbearing at times.” Mom linked her arm through his and chuckled. “Good thing I love you so much.”
I smiled and then turned my head, but Izzie had disappeared. I could see her through the window in the back door, phone slapped to her ear, looking none too happy.
The dinging of the doorbell grabbed my attention. I sprinted up the hallway and yanked open the front door. “What’s the matter? Did you forget your nautical telescope? How are you going to find land if you—” I pulled back. “Willow! Sorry, I thought you were my parents, which you obviously aren’t.” I wrinkled my nose in embarrassment. “Come in.”
Willow slipped by me. She clutched a manila envelope in one hand and her bag in the other. A denim jacket splashed with jagged circles in bold colors covered her top half. A short miniskirt and fishnet leggings finished the ensemble. “Sorry to bother you.” She shoved the envelope at my chest. “Someone stuck this in the shop mailbox. I thought it might be important, and why is there yellow tape covering the front door?” She heaved her chest and blinked.
Despite Whisper Cove being a small town where everybody knew everybody, word about the murder obviously hadn’t gotten around to Willow.
“Let’s go into the kitchen. Have you eaten breakfast? We have plenty of leftovers. When he’s on one of his healthy food kicks, our dad makes the best tofu bacon.” I led the way while gathering my thoughts on how to break the tragic news without getting hysterical.
Izzie might be able to remain calm, cool, and collected, but I would be having nightmares for years. Then again, I was the one who had found Fiona with a knife sticking out of her neck. Not Izzie. Those kinds of images couldn’t be erased.
“Would you like some fresh-squeezed juice?” I held up the pitcher.
Willow leaned back against the table with her arms crossed. “What I’d like is to know what’s going on. Did something happen at the shop? An explosion? Fire? A break-in?”
I chewed on my lip then motioned her to sit down. “None of the above. You see, last night after you left, I found—”
“Oh! Hi, Willow. Did Chloe tell you the tragic news? Fiona was murdered outside in the alley behind my shop. We’re closed for business until Detective Barrett says otherwise.” Izzie had popped through the back doorway and now paced the kitchen. “I’m trying to be civil and understanding and sensitive to what happened to poor Fiona, but learning I have no grand opening for the foreseeable future, which means no income to pay the rent and utilities, sort of puts me in a foul mood.” She waved her phone. “Adding to that, I’ve lost a thousand dollars for an ad that won’t be placed because the date to get a refund has passed. Any questions?” She broke stride and sank into the chair across from me and Willow, blinking her watery eyes.
“That’s just—is there anything I can do to help?” Willow hurried around the table and sat close to Izzie. Her chin trembled as she squeezed her employer’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“Me too.” Izzie nodded and eased out of Willow’s grasp. “The only thing you, that is, all of us, can do is hope Detective Barrett finds who murdered Fiona as quickly as possible. Then we can get back to our lives and Paint with a View can open like I planned.”
I shivered at the fierce tone in Izzie’s voice. Complicated only began to describe her personality. She had layers that took time to understand. Right now, I recognized the part of her that felt threatened. When her plans tumbled like a tall stack of Jenga blocks, she lost confidence, which could lead to total chaos.
“You know what? I think we should make a list of as many ideas as we can for future painting events.”
“I already have those.” Izzie hiccupped. “Fifty of them, which will take us through December, if we do two a week. That is, if we ever open.” She sobbed and leaned her head on Willow’s shoulder. “I’m a hot mess.”
“Then we think of fifty more, or sixty to start next year.” I snapped my fingers. “What about a suggestion inbox? People submit their ideas for an event theme. We pick one every month. The winner gets to bring a few guests for a private party.”
“Sure.” Izzie sniffed. “We can do that. Great idea, Chloe.”
She managed a warm smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
I scrambled to think of another way to perk up that pretty face. My shoulders sank. “Okay. I’m done playing cheerleader. Should we make another kind of list? One with all the most likely suspects? We can give those names to Detective Barrett.”
“Gwen. She’s the only one I can think of.” Izzie shrugged.
“What about Sammy Peale?” Willow suggested. “Chloe, didn’t you say Fiona made some awful remarks about her during our paint event and that Sammy was shooting murderous looks at Fiona?” She shrugged. “Sorry. Murderous is a poor choice.”
“Yeah, but Sammy couldn’t have heard those comments. She was too far away.” I thought for a moment. “How severe was Fiona’s column about Sammy?”
“I know where you’re going with this. Like I said, plenty of shop owners had a grudge against Fiona and her column. That’s not a reason to kill, is it?” Izzie tilted her head and paused, as if waiting for one of us to answer. “If it is, then the Chautauqua County authorities should question every person she’s written about.”
“You’re right.” I threw up my arms. “We need to dig deeper.”
Both Willow and Izzie widened their eyes.
“What? You want to sit back and let fate take its course, which, let me tell you, will mean either you or most likely I will end up charged with murder.” Fear and imagined scenarios darkened my mood, and, all at once, the weight of that exhausted me.
“How about we stop playing detective and let the real one do his job?” Izzie stood. “I’m sure he can manage.”
“Yes, but—”
The doorbell rang again to interrupt me.
“I’ll answer it. I need to go, anyway. Date with my hair stylist.” Willow tugged at her hair and laughed. “My purple has faded to pink.” She nodded at the envelope. “That was in the shop mail.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know when we can open back up,” Izzie said.
Within seconds, Willow returned, carrying a covered dish. She pointed at the attached sticky note. “Mrs. Bixby sends her condolences and offers to help in any way she can.” She raised her head with peaked eyebrows.
Izzie took the dish, lifted the lid and sighed, and then placed it in the fridge next to the other containers. “I swear, you’d think we were the ones grieving. This makes three dishes delivered this morning, all from our neighbors who must think we’re starving. If one more tuna casserole comes to our door, I’m dumping it down the disposal.”
“Izzie.” I swallowed my response. “Thanks, Willow.”
“No problem.” She waved, then sprinted down the hallway.
“I know.” Izzie pursed her lips. “I’m sorry. I’ll try harder to be … what’s the word?”
“Kind? Sensitive? Or maybe keep those mean thoughts to yourself.” I chuckled.
Izzie opened the envelope and studied the contents. With a shake of her head, she folded the paper and shoved it in her pocket. Looking at me, she smiled. “Yeah, I can try, but right now, I’m making no promises. Once this … situation passes and we can reopen, I’ll be back to my usual sweet, adorable self.”
I skirted the table and gave her a hug. “Sweet and adorable is so much better.”
“Yoo-hoo? Is anybody here?” Megan clip-clopped in her heeled sandals across the hall. Standing in the kitchen doorway, with oven mitts covering her hands, she held out
a Crock-Pot. “Mom and I made too much clam chowder. We thought you might like some, in case you don’t want to cook this evening because of, well, you know.”
Izzie rolled her eyes. “Thank goodness it’s not a tuna noodle casserole.”
“Huh?” Megan blinked.
“Inside joke. Thank you. We love clam chowder. Please, place it over there on the stove. I need to make room in the fridge,” Izzie said.
Megan passed by me to get to the stove. Her arms shook as she held onto the handles of the Crock-Pot. I stepped toward her. “Here, let me help you. I bet it’s really heavy.”
She pulled the pot out of my reach. “Trust me, you don’t want to touch. Way too hot without mitts or potholders.”
After setting the heavy cookware on the stove, she pulled off the mitts.
At once, I caught sight of the scratch marks, tiny threads of bright red stretched across her wrists. “Oh my gosh. What happened to your arms?” I spoke before thinking how intrusive the question sounded. Guess I couldn’t follow my own advice to keep my thoughts to myself.
Megan quickly lowered both arms to her sides. “Would you believe gardening gone wrong?” She blushed. “Prickle bushes aren’t something you want to tangle with.”
“Seriously, since when do you garden? I thought plants and grass made you sneeze,” Izzie teased, then lifted Megan’s arm. She stared at the wound and cringed. “Oooh, that’s looks bad, Megs. You should have a doctor take a look.”
“It’s fine. I decided to try a new hobby, and I take allergy medication nowadays. I thought I told you.”
Megan’s words carried an edge, as if Izzie’s remarks irritated her. Or maybe she was offended Izzie didn’t know those details about her. After all, they were best friends. Either way, her reaction seemed angry and out of place to me.
A Brush with Murder Page 5