“Don’t beat yourself up over this. From what your granddaddy said, she didn’t share her problems.”
The chief left the café as more customers arrived. When business slowed down at eleven, Val called the bookshop. “Hi, Dorothy. Bram told me you had a few details to settle for tonight.”
“Glad you called. Your grandfather said that all your catering has been in the homes of your clients. Do they usually set the table with the linen, dishes, and utensils?”
“Yes, but I can do that for you if you like.”
“I’d appreciate it. I can’t even guess which of my unopened moving boxes contains tableware. Would you also bring wineglasses? Gillian wants wine. We don’t have a license to serve alcohol on the premises, but since she’s renting the room for the evening, I guess it’s okay for her to bring it herself.”
Fine with Val. She was glad to leave the choice of wine to her clients. “Not a problem. Some eateries without alcohol licenses advertise that customers can bring their own drinks. I’ll supply the wineglasses.”
“Wonderful. Your grandfather hasn’t come to the bookshop since Saturday. Is he okay?”
“He’s fine, just busy.” And concerned that Dorothy might not want him around. “His recipe column was due yesterday, and . . .” Val hesitated, unsure how Dorothy would react to Granddad’s ghost hunting. “Today he had a couple of appointments.”
“I’m glad to hear he’s doing well.”
And Granddad would be glad to hear that Dorothy missed seeing him. Val called him as soon as she had a free moment, but he didn’t answer. Nor was he in the house when she got home at two thirty.
By the time he strode into the kitchen, she’d gathered the ingredients for the appetizers, made the main course, and put the dessert in the oven.
He sniffed. “Something smells good. I hope you made a little extra for me.”
“Of course. You’re my official taster. The madeleines should be ready soon.”
“I could use some tea with them.” He filled the kettle with water. “A hot drink will take the chill out of me.”
“Ghost hunting chilled you?”
“Nope. The outside temperature’s dropping fast. It finally feels like fall.” He turned on the burner under the kettle. “I plan to make it very warm for whoever’s haunting my clients. I’m going to set a trap.”
Uh-oh. Now Val was the one who was chilled. “The last time you set a trap for a criminal, you turned up the heat on yourself . . . as a murder suspect.”
Chapter 13
Granddad opened the smallest canister in Grandma’s vintage aluminum set and took out a teabag. “I’m not dealing with a murderer this time.”
“That’s what you thought last time.” Val checked the madeleines. They were puffing up nicely and should be done in a few minutes.
“I’ve taken detective courses online since then. And I have a high tech tool.”
“RoboFido?”
“Nope. I want to catch the culprits, not scare ’em off.”
Exactly what Val had feared. “Tell me about the clients you saw today.” Maybe she could talk him out of whatever he had in mind to catch their “ghosts.”
“This morning I met Mr. and Mrs. King. They live just outside Bayport. Big bear of a man, hard of hearing. Little bird of a woman, a light sleeper with keen ears. One night last month she woke when she heard a thump and creaking floorboards. She shook him awake. He heard nothing and told her she was imagining things. She didn’t bother to wake him the next time she heard noises. By then she was convinced they had a ghost because she was missing some things but no one had broken in.”
“Like your other client, Mrs. Jackson. But she didn’t hear any noises, did she?”
“No. Mr. King took me aside and said his wife often misplaced things and was getting funny in the head, so I shouldn’t pay attention to her.” The teakettle whistled and Granddad poured the water into his cup. “When I was leaving, she walked me to the car and said she didn’t want the ghost stealing any more of her mother’s heirloom jewelry. Expensive stuff, like a hundred-year-old diamond ring appraised for seven thousand dollars. What do you think is going on?”
Val took the madeleines from the oven. “Her ghost might be her husband. Maybe he gave the jewelry to his mistress or hocked it to pay gambling debts.”
“Or he’s gaslighting his wife and wants her declared incompetent.” Granddad took his tea to the kitchen table. “I changed my mind about that after I talked to my next client. Mrs. Hill also heard noises in the middle of the night. I suggested she might have an animal in the attic, but she’d already had the exterminator check. No sign of wildlife up there. She wanted me to certify she had no ghosts in the house.”
Val laughed. “Why?”
“She’s about to put her house on the market. Her agent told her about the Maryland Real Estate Commission regulations. They require the seller to reveal all material facts, anything that might affect the decision to buy or the price offered.”
“A resident ghost is not a material fact.”
“According to Mrs. Hill, a survey showed that nearly half the house hunters would rule out buying a haunted place, and the folks willing to buy it want a deep discount. Mrs. Hill’s agent recommended full disclosure to avoid a lawsuit after the sale. She’s afraid she’ll get less money for the house if she mentions the ghost. If she doesn’t, the buyer might sue her for not revealing it.”
“Assuming the buyer could prove the ghost exists. Does Mrs. Hill believe your certificate will protect her from a lawsuit?”
Granddad sipped his tea. “I told her it wouldn’t. I also asked her if anything had disappeared from her house. She didn’t think so, but she told me to wait in the kitchen while she had a look around.”
Val could guess the result. “Small, expensive items were missing.”
“Jewelry and her late husband’s coin collection.”
“Could she have moved the coins to another place in the house and forgotten where she put them?”
“The metal box was too heavy for her to move. That’s why she left it where it always was—on a shelf in the coat closet.”
A suspicion formed in Val’s mind. “Where does she live?”
“Treadwell.”
Val began to see a pattern. “You said Mrs. Jackson lives in Easton. The chief told me burglars had recently hit houses in both of those towns.”
His eyebrows rose. “All the folks who contacted me about ghosts have something else in common. They use a housecleaning service. I thought it might be the same company, but it isn’t.” He stroked his chin. “Hmm. The same folks might clean for different companies.”
Possible, since those towns were only fifteen minutes apart. “Good work, Granddad. You’ve found people who haven’t reported the disappearance of their valuables. They live where burglars have been active. You should talk to the chief about it.”
“He didn’t think much of my idea that Mr. Patel might have been involved with Suzette. From now on I won’t tell him anything until I have solid evidence. I’ve thought of a way to smoke out the burglars.”
Val hoped he didn’t intend to stake out the houses. “This is the trap you mentioned?”
“Yup. Mrs. Hill is going to visit a friend in Washington tomorrow and stay overnight. Her cleaning team was supposed to do her house tomorrow morning. She told them she’d be out of town from early Wednesday to late Thursday. They’ve postponed her cleaning until Friday morning.”
She guessed what he was thinking. “You expect a burglar to visit her house tomorrow night. Did you tell her that?”
“No, but I convinced her to change her locks. I got Ned to go over there and put in new ones this afternoon. I figure the burglar has a key to her place. That key isn’t going to work tomorrow night, but my motion-activated video recorder with night vision will show who’s trying to break in. Ned and I are going over to Mrs. Hill’s house later to set it up near the door and make sure it works.”
“Whe
re did you get that gizmo?”
“I ordered it online after talking to Mrs. Jackson on Sunday. I figured she might have a burglar. The package showed up this morning.”
“Too bad it didn’t arrive in time for us to test it here.” Val stood up. “I have to go to the bookshop at five thirty. When you leave this evening to set up your camera, please turn on RoboFido. Our burglar might make a return visit when the house is empty.”
“I’ll also let Harvey know we’ll both be gone. He likes looking out the windows and checking what his neighbors are doing. He’ll keep an eye on the house until one of us gets back.”
“I talked to Dorothy today. She asked about you and wondered why you haven’t been to the bookshop since Saturday.”
“She did?” He smiled. “I’ll drop in tomorrow.”
* * *
Bram helped Val arrange the tables and chairs in the CAT Corner for the Fictionistas’ get-together. By pushing two of the small square tables together, they created a single table large enough for six in the center of the room. They stacked the spare chairs in a corner and moved the remaining tables toward the bookshelf wall. Drinks and snacks would go on those tables.
Val surveyed the Halloween decorations interspersed with books on the shelves. The pumpkins, scarecrows, and ghosts could stay, but not the skulls and skeletons. Decorative reminders of death didn’t suit tonight’s occasion. “I’m going to tuck a few of these items behind the counter for the evening.”
Bram glanced at the shelves with a puzzled frown. “The breakable ones? You’re expecting a rowdy meeting?”
“You never know. Before I leave, I’ll put everything back the way it was.” A ceramic black cat on the top shelf reminded Val that a real one might drop in tonight. “Can we expect Isis for dinner?”
“I’ll put her upstairs. Shout if you need anything.” He left for the sales floor.
Val stowed away the offending knickknacks and got the table ready. The dried flower arrangement she’d brought as a centerpiece went well with the gold, orange, and maroon colors in the tablecloth’s leaf pattern.
She’d just added the spices to the cider she was warming when Bram returned.
He held up a cordless phone. “A call came in for Gillian on the bookshop phone. A woman phoning about tonight’s meeting. You want to talk to her?”
She nodded and took the phone. “Hi. This is Val. Gillian’s not here yet. Can I help you?”
“It’s Morgan. Please tell Gillian I’ll be a little late for our meeting. Fifteen minutes at most. She told me you’d be catering tonight. What kind of tea do you have?”
She turned toward Bram, who was emptying the box of dishware she’d brought, making himself useful while waiting for his phone.
“What kind of tea do I have?” Val said loudly into the phone. “Give me a second and I’ll check.”
Bram got the message. He opened the upper cabinet near the sink and pointed to boxes of teabags.
Val peered at them. “English Breakfast, Earl Grey, and an assortment of herb teas.”
“I’ll bring my own tea,” Morgan said. “See you later.” She hung up.
Val tried to guess what Morgan would bring. A green tea, a white tea, chai, or an exotic herbal blend?
“Did we pass the tea test?” Bram said.
“Afraid not. I suspect your chance of passing it was about the same as winning the lottery.”
He smiled and slipped through the curtains back to the shop floor.
Val looked up from stirring the cider as a tall, almost skeletal man took tentative steps into the room. Casper’s elongated pasty face had only a bit more color today than when he’d covered it with the opera phantom’s white mask.
“Hi, Casper. You’re the first one here.”
He slung his well-worn MIT jacket over the stacked chairs. Under it, he wore a shirt the color of mud. It might have been white before being washed with dark clothes. Tissue bits clung to his navy pants. Val sympathized. Anyone could forget to empty pockets before doing the laundry, but most people would brush off the evidence of the mishap before wearing the pants.
He walked over to the counter and sniffed. “What smells so good in here?”
“Spiced apple cider. Would you like some?”
He hesitated. “Never had that before, but I’ll throw caution to the winds tonight.”
Val suppressed a laugh, unsure if he was joking. She ladled steaming cider from the pot into a mug. “Here you go.”
He took a small sip. “Not bad.” He sipped again. “I’m really bummed out about what happened to Suzette. I met her six months ago at an Eastern Shore Writers Association meeting. I knew her longer than the others in our writing group.”
Did he feel a sense of possession toward her because of that? “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Me too.” His washed-out gray eyes glistened with tears.
Val believed his sadness and pain were genuine. The Phantom of the Opera felt those same emotions. Had Casper, like the Phantom, suffered lovesickness and burned with rage? If a costume reflected the wearer’s true nature, then all the Fictionistas had a capacity for violence. Did Morgan, like her namesake, hide her vengeful nature behind a mask of goodwill? Was Ruth as ruthless and ambitious as Lady Macbeth? Had her handsome nephew become a predator like the gentleman-turned-zombie he’d portrayed? Val reminded herself to keep her inner Nancy Drew in check. Sometimes a costume is just a costume.
She lowered the heat under the cider. “What kind of work do you do, Casper?”
“Tech support at a small company, and I freelance as a bug buster.”
Val had heard the term bug buster used for pest controllers, but she doubted Casper had gone that far afield from his primary job. “Computer bugs?”
“You got it. I fix computers in people’s homes.”
“Can you get into the computers of people who’ve forgotten their passwords?”
“I’m not a hacker, but I know a few. The key is to get users to stop panicking. Once they relax, the password comes to them or they remember where they wrote it down. Why are you asking? You have a computer you can’t get into?”
“Not anymore.” Would the burglar who’d taken Suzette’s computer try to crack her password or simply destroy the computer?
The curtain at the entrance to the CAT Corner rustled. Gillian came in, with a small briefcase in one hand and a large tote bag in the other. The necks of wine bottles stuck out from the top of the bag. “I hoped to get here earlier and give you a hand, Val, but traffic on Route 50 was awful.”
She wore a straight denim skirt and a brown corduroy jacket. As she walked, the wine bottles clinked against each other inside her tote.
Casper put down his cider mug. “You need any help with that bag?”
“Thank you. Set it down near the wineglasses.” She handed him the bag and put her briefcase on the chair at one end of the large table. Then she joined him at the wine table. “I’m glad you decided to come after all. It’s better to grieve with other people than alone. We can give each other comfort.”
And maybe, by the time the meeting was over, Gillian would have the comfort of knowing that her suspicions were unfounded and that none of the people she mentored had a reason to harm Suzette.
Gillian unpacked two bottles of red wine and two of white. If the Fictionistas drank all that wine, Val might have to chauffeur them home.
Casper brought Val one of the bottles. “Gillian cooled the white wine, but she’d like you to put this bottle in the fridge until we’re ready for it.” He picked up the mug he’d left on the counter. “I’ll have some wine later, but first I’ll finish the cider. It’s very good.”
He stood at the counter watching Val put goat cheese, dried cranberries, and nuts on the sweet potato rounds she’d roasted. Would this appetizer be too exotic for a man ambivalent about drinking warm spiced cider?
Wilson strutted into the room in a leather bomber jacket. “Ruth said to tell you she’s running late. When I
left the house, she was putting on heavy makeup. The heavy jewelry comes next.” He deposited his jacket on an empty table near the bookcase and headed for the wine. “But we don’t have to wait for her before we start drowning our sorrows.”
He studied the labels on the wine bottles and poured red wine to the rim of a glass. “Good evening, ladies.” He raised his glass to Gillian at the wine table and Val behind the counter. Then he glared at Casper and downed some wine.
Casper took a step toward him, and Gillian blocked his path, positioning herself between the two men, one elegant in preppy clothes and the other clad in his laundry disasters. They’d baited each other on Saturday, but their animosity seemed greater tonight, and wine might increase their hostility.
As Ruth burst into the room, her perfume vanquished the aroma of spiced apple cider. “My dears, we must be brave. Suzette would want us to soldier on.” Unaware of or ignoring the tension in the room, she unwound the black pashmina shawl that covered her shoulders and her frosted curls. Her gold bracelets clanked as she waved her arms around, exclaiming on the room’s coziness and the table’s charming centerpiece.
Dressed as Lady Macbeth for the costume contest, she’d spoken her lines like an American trying to sound British. This evening she talked like a local. The accent puzzled Val. Why had she expected a Southern drawl? Then it dawned on her—she’d seen Ruth in the Treadwell Players’ production of The Glass Mendacity, playing Big Momma in the Tennessee Williams spoof. Ruth had worn something flowered and frumpy for that play. A handsome woman in her fifties, she looked elegant in a royal blue pants outfit and a splashy silk scarf. Though the oldest member of the writing group, she was the fashionista of the Fictionistas. Her dramatic entrance was cut short by Morgan’s arrival.
Though at least two decades younger than Ruth, Morgan looked much less glamorous in a long black broomstick skirt. Val wouldn’t consider wearing a voluminous crinkled skirt like that, which would add bulk to her curves. What’s more, the material needed special treatment. After washing it, you had to twist it around a broomstick handle to maintain the crinkles while it dried—the opposite of ironing, but no more appealing. Both the skirt and the scoop-neck black top Morgan wore had stray white hairs on them from a pet. Her straight dirty-blond hair had probably been red before its color faded. The black outfit didn’t flatter Morgan’s pale freckled face.
Crypt Suzette Page 12