“I didn’t get the impression they were financially struggling.” The vintage dress Olivia had worn to the lawyer’s office was worth a small fortune in the right market.
“They do have quite a nest egg.” Rita leaned back against the shelves and took a sip of what had to be cold coffee by now. “But they don’t have nearly what they might’ve if they’d been the ones in control of the estate.”
“And where does the inn come in?” I stood, picked up a full box of mystery books, and emptied it two aisles over in the appropriate new section.
“In 1997, a major hotel conglomerate bought the estate and one thousand of the surrounding acres from the government for a song. They completed the manor, using its original plans and landscaping. This took two years. In the fall of ’99, Hokes Bluff Inn opened its doors to the paying public. This boosted the economy as tourists poured dollars into the town, shopping in the historic downtown shops. Restaurants popped up almost overnight, as did bed-and-breakfasts and gas stations and a bunch of other service-oriented businesses. And now Hokes Folly is the booming metropolis you see today.” Rita spread her hands as if to encompass the town as I walked back through the piles to where she sat.
“That’s great, but you still haven’t gotten around to explaining how being a makeup artist landed you a job at the hotel in the first place.”
“Oh, yeah.” Rita brushed dust off her hands and arched her back to stretch. “I almost forgot you asked. This is the best part. The Hokes Bluff Inn is a five-star facility. But there’s a twist that makes it a must-do for the rich and famous. When you arrive, you have to park your vehicle in an enclosed and attended parking facility two miles from the manor house. You’re then taken down a winding road through some really beautiful trees to the hotel in one of several horse-drawn carriages, which are exact replicas of designs from the 1890s.
“Once you’re at the manor house, staff dressed in period costumes carry your bags and escort you to your assigned room. The atmosphere is like it would have been around 1900. Even the meals, games, and entertainment are all set up to be as authentic as possible.”
“Kind of like a step back in time.” I had remained standing, and I shifted down the aisle, working on upper shelves from which the books had not been tossed, while Rita continued to sit on the floor and work on random stacks.
“Exactly like a step back in time. Each guest is provided with either a lady’s maid or a valet, depending on gender. Here’s where I come in. Throughout the day, the women will dress for activities and meals just as they would have in 1900. On the estate grounds near the manor, there is a separate facility where the ladies go to have their hair done in turn-of-the-century styles, and period costumes are provided for both men and women. Basically, my staff and I get to take each woman and make her a turn-of-the-century work of art. And I’m quite good at it too.” Rita added a flip of her red tresses and a flashy grin.
“It sounds like things are pretty realistic.”
“That’s how it’s meant to be, and they’ve done a beautiful job of it.”
“I’d love a behind-the-scenes tour sometime, if you can swing it.”
“I think I can manage that.”
I had finally reached the end of the row of bookshelves, and I glanced at my watch. Almost noon. No wonder I was hungry. “Hey, it’s lunchtime.” I stretched. “Want to stop to grab a bite to eat?”
“Sure. I know just the place.” Rita stood and leaned over to pick up a full box of science fiction books and groaned. “I’m too old to be playing on the floor.” She took the books to their new section.
We walked down Center Street to a small publike restaurant with dim lighting and a wooden floor. A long bar stretched along one wall, and a huge gilt-framed mirror hung behind it. Light filtered through the stained-glass windows and made softly colored patterns on every surface. Seated at a small, round table near the bar, I ran my fingers through the tiny rainbows that played across the tabletop while we waited for someone to take our order.
We had received our drinks and ordered lunch when the local noon news came on the television mounted on the wall behind the bar.
“Thank you for joining me, Connie Dunne—”
“And me, Jonathan Greer,” piped in her co-anchor.
“—here on Channel Five Noon News for weather updates and highlights of our evening news,” the anchorwoman continued. “The top story this half hour is the arrest of the man who allegedly murdered local bookstore owner Paul Baxter five days ago.”
Chapter Twelve
I almost dropped my glass of sweet tea. As the newswoman gave a quick overview of the recent crime, I held my breath.
“Do you think they arrested Stan Jergins because of what I said?” whispered Rita, her face pale.
“I don’t know. We’ll find out in a minute.” I shushed her with a wave of my hand. I didn’t want to miss any of this. If they’d arrested someone else, wouldn’t it stand to reason I was off the hook?
The newswoman droned on. “At around ten thirty this morning, police arrested twenty-year-old Mason Craig at his residence. Mr. Craig was overheard making threats of physical violence to Mr. Baxter nine months ago when Mr. Baxter fired him for allegedly stealing. Mr. Craig allegedly murdered Mr. Baxter over this grudge. Sources tell us that, although Mr. Craig had moved to another town after the alleged theft, he was in Hokes Folly on the day of the murder. More on this breaking story at six.
“And now, on to the weather.” The newswoman turned the cameras to an overweight weatherman wearing out-of-date clothes, whose jolly face and happy demeanor probably did a lot to take the bite out of the more serious stories for many of the viewers.
I tuned out the rest of the news and leaned in toward Rita. “Who’s Mason Craig?”
“He worked for Paul for about two months last year,” replied Rita quietly. “The first few weeks were okay, but then Paul kept coming up short on a regular basis when he counted the drawer at night. He fired Mason, and the problem stopped.”
“This kid threatened bodily harm over getting fired?” Had Uncle Paul been naïve enough to hire someone with violent tendencies?
“No. Mason didn’t threaten him until he tried to get another job and no one would hire him. He assumed Paul had told them not to, which wasn’t true. First, that would be illegal, and second, it wasn’t Paul’s style. The other store owners simply figured if Paul had fired him, there must be a darned good reason, so they chose to pass when he applied.”
Our food had finally arrived, and Rita took a bite of her hoagie.
“Why didn’t Uncle Paul have him arrested?” I winced, not truly wishing that on anyone.
“Because he couldn’t really prove Mason was stealing. He never actually caught him in the act.”
“So Mason left town?” I struggled to put events together in my mind. No matter how I looked at it, it didn’t add up.
“It was either that or work at Burger King or McDonald’s. He supposedly moved to be able to work at a higher-than-minimum-wage job, since he brags about his big job every chance he gets.” Rita took a sip of her drink and nibbled at her hoagie again.
“I can’t believe he came back after all this time to murder Uncle Paul. Why wait? And if it had been that long, why not let it go?” Something stank in Denmark. I wasn’t quite sure what, but I knew this was wrong.
Rita swallowed another bite. “He wouldn’t have come back simply to murder Paul.”
“Did he have a girlfriend or boyfriend here?” I pushed my salad around on my plate with my fork. My appetite was gone.
If this kid was getting railroaded, I could definitely relate, and I didn’t have the right to feel relieved I wasn’t the one arrested. Did I?
“Nothing quite so romantic. His mother passed away a month or so before Mason went to work for Paul. He comes back every once in a while to tend to her grave site.”
I finally forced myself to take a bite of my salad, but I was too unsettled to enjoy the flavors bursting from the
mixed greens and homemade dressing.
“There’s only one thing that confuses me,” Rita said.
“What’s that?” My stomach churned, and I gave up and pushed my salad away.
“Mason usually comes on a Wednesday, because his mother passed away on a Wednesday. Paul was killed on a Sunday,” Rita stated, as if I’d know what that meant.
My eyebrows shot up. “You know when Mason usually comes to town?”
“Paul did. He’d met Mason in the cemetery when he went to visit Irene’s grave site. That’s how Mason came to work for Paul in the first place. The kid always took Wednesday afternoons off to tend his mother’s grave site. After he fired Mason, Paul made sure he was never at the cemetery on Wednesdays. He changed his regular day to Sunday.”
“Okay, but why is that so confusing?” I took a sip of sweet tea, hoping it would calm my stomach.
“If Mason had been coming here for so long on Wednesdays, why did he show up on a Sunday?” Rita propped her elbows on the table in front of her empty plate.
“Maybe he had something he had to do that Wednesday that he couldn’t get out of.” I shrugged. What did I know about why a kid would go to a cemetery on a specific day?
“Maybe. But if he’d never looked up Paul to have it out with him before now, then why that week?”
“Why not that week?” Okay, now I was arguing simply for the sake of arguing. A twinge of unease pinged at the back of my mind. Maybe I was arguing because I wanted someone, anyone, to be guilty so I wouldn’t have to go through another ordeal like the one in Charlotte.
“No, I mean, if he hadn’t had it out with Paul before now, he probably wouldn’t have done it, period. So, if he ran into Paul, it would’ve been at the cemetery.” Rita picked up her napkin and folded it several times.
“I see where you’re going.” The hamster finally started running in the wheel. “If he’d actually seen Uncle Paul at the cemetery, then Mason could’ve had it out with him right there.”
“Exactly. And he wouldn’t have gone to Paul’s home to start up an old argument then kill him with sleeping pills, now would he?”
My mind raced. “And if he’d shown up at the house acting mad after having picked a fight at the cemetery, Uncle Paul would’ve had the good sense not to open the door.” At least I hoped he would have. I hadn’t seen him in a long time, so who knew?
“You’re right about that.” Rita wiped a bit of mayo off her finger with her napkin.
“If Mason didn’t do it, who does that leave?” I had resumed pushing my food around my plate in the hope that I’d actually talk myself into eating some of it. Were the police so inept they would first hassle me as a suspect, then arrest someone else on such flimsy evidence?
“Stan?”
I shook my head. “Maybe not. If he’d been a possibility, wouldn’t the police have arrested him instead of Mason?”
“You’re probably right.” Rita sipped her drink, seemingly lost in thought for a moment. “The police were going to question Gladys about who she saw come to the house to argue with Paul. If it was Mason, then they’ve pretty much wrapped up the case.”
“But what if it wasn’t Mason who Gladys saw? What if it was Stan? Maybe he’s still a suspect.” I choked down another tasteless bite. Maybe that crazy detective thought I was still a suspect too.
“The police must have something stronger to go on than the fact that Mason was in town on a Sunday. They can’t go around arresting someone over a suspicion, can they? Don’t they have to have hard evidence, or whatever it’s called?”
I flinched. Boy did I know better. “You’d think so, but how many times have the police arrested someone, only to find out later they have the wrong person?”
Rita reached over and gave my hand a squeeze. Not a full hug, but from Rita, it felt the same. “I don’t understand something, though.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. You said when you got here, you never went to the store, right?”
I nodded.
“But when the police arrived, the store was locked.” She took another bite and chewed.
“Right.” I nodded again, trying to figure out where she was going with this.
“Since Paul had the only set of keys, and his keys were on the coffee table upstairs, and the only way to lock the store from the outside is with the keys …” She sipped her drink, apparently waiting for me to catch up with her train of thought.
My frazzled brain finally put the pieces together, and the last vestiges of my already slim appetite fled. “Whoever killed him had to leave through the apartment.”
“It’s likely, in my opinion. After all, Paul did fall down the stairs, which implies he was upstairs with the killer to begin with.” She brushed her hands off, laid her napkin across her empty plate, and finished the last of her tea. “Are you ready to head back to the store?”
I looked at my plate. “I guess I should ask for a to-go box.”
Rita looked up from rummaging in her purse for her wallet. “Hey, you didn’t eat much. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m just worried. A murdered uncle isn’t exactly the kind of thing that happens to me every day, especially when I’m the initial suspect. Now I’m also worried they’re railroading some young kid who doesn’t have the ability to fight back. It’s killed my appetite and upset my stomach. I don’t see how you managed to eat all of your huge sandwich.”
“Honey, I learned a long time ago to never let anything come between me and a good meal.”
I laughed, but it was more of a yeah-okay-sure kind of laugh than a funny-ha-ha laugh. “I wish I could say the same.” I signaled a server to bring a to-go box. At least I’d have supper already prepared for tonight. With all the bending and getting up and down off the floor, I probably wouldn’t feel much like cooking.
“Put all this mess out of your mind for now. There’s nothing you can do anyway.”
“You’re right.” I didn’t voice the other thought circling through my brain. When I’d arrived, that skittish feeling I’d felt, those noises I’d heard, might have been a killer still searching the apartment. What if they’d still been inside? I took a deep breath, knowing I was being ridiculous, and reached for my wallet.
After paying, we headed back toward the bookstore to continue straightening out the mess Uncle Paul had left. When we got close, I blinked, trying to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. A small figure peered in the front window, then raised its hand and pounded on the glass angrily.
What the hell?
Chapter Thirteen
The figure turned out to be none other than Olivia Hokes. What could possibly have the woman so upset she felt the need to beat on store windows?
I rushed forward before she could damage the glass. “May I help you, Miss Hokes?” I smiled in what I hoped was a believable, friendly-store-owner manner.
“Yes,” came the clipped retort. “You can get my book.” She pursed her lips and gave a tilted nod, her hands now clasped in front of another vintage dress.
“Excuse me?” I racked my brain, shoving the revelations from moments ago to the back of my mind and mentally searching through the books I’d seen on the shelf behind the counter, yet I couldn’t remember seeing anything with her name on it. But then I hadn’t exactly been looking either.
“My book.” Olivia squinted at me, her hands now on her hips. “The one Paul Baxter was supposed to order but kept saying had never come in. I know it really did. It was very rare, and I wouldn’t put it past him if he kept it out of spite. I saw you in there today, and I want my book. Now. If you don’t give it to me immediately, I’ll call the police.”
I shot a look at Rita, who raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders.
Smile. Be sweet. Don’t piss off customers. What was the old saying? The customer is always right, or something like that. “Miss Hokes, I’m sure if Uncle Paul told you he didn’t have the book, then he really didn’t have it yet.”
“Well, I want that book,
” Olivia Hokes spat out. “You’d better find it, or else. It’s a 1923 treatise on the history of Hokes Folly. Paul said he’d located a copy and promised to order it. I need it for my collection.”
“Your collection?” I glanced again at Rita and received a second shrug.
“Yes.” The woman seemed to puff up with smugness and self-importance. “I have the largest collection on Hokes Folly anywhere in the state. There are two libraries begging me to donate the books to them in my will.”
“You do understand the book you want might not be here.” I typed the information into the notes on my phone.
“If it’s not, then you’d better look for it to come. I want it the moment it’s here. I’ll be watching you.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “I’ll know when your shipments come in.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I gritted my teeth, determined not to be rude to the woman. “The book might be held at the post office if it arrived after Uncle Paul’s death.”
“It’s one more thing that old man messed up. He had to cause me trouble even after he’s dead and gone.” Olivia Hokes turned on her heel, stomped away to the shop next door, and went inside.
I brushed a stray hair out of my face and turned to Rita. “Do you have any idea what that was all about?”
“None whatsoever.” Rita shook her head, her forehead wrinkled and an amused look in her eyes. “Let’s go before your neighbor decides to really call the police and have us arrested for loitering or something.”
“Neighbor?” Oh God, was I going to have to see her every day? I followed Rita into the store, letting the sweet tinkle of the bell over the door cheer me.
“Yep, she and her sister, Ophelia, run the antique clothing store next door under my apartment. So, you’d better try to patch things up with her by finding the book she wants.”
For Whom the Book Tolls Page 8