by Judith Mehl
In a loud whisper, she said, “Did you see that misfit over there treat me like a bug? The one with the weasel face and weak chin? I bet he doesn’t even leave a tip!”
“Yeah, I saw him. Can’t decide if he’s psychotic, hostile, or scared to death. Then what do I know about people? The ones around here are usually just catatonic.”
He saw the owner walk behind the counter from the back room. She’d obviously overhead them, too. She shushed them and said loud enough for all to hear. “That’s just Irving. He’s weird, but harmless. He eats here all the time.”
Irving didn’t react when he heard any of it. He didn’t know what he was either, right now. Harmless, probably not. Psychotic. No. His psychologist said he needed to focus, that’s all. Yeah, he was hostile. Well, hell. Life just stepped on his plans. Scared. Darn right.
Gotta go.
He swiped at the sweat on his nose with a napkin, then bunched it up and flung it across the table. Irving grabbed the paper to read again later. It wasn’t his, but who would stop him? He jerked upright and the chair rocked backward. He caught it in a clumsy swing that almost knocked it sideways.
Gotta go. Gotta go. What will I do?
He left barely remembering to leave money for his sandwich. The door swung wide as he raced out. A breeze whipped around the corner, caught his face, and ruffled his dirty hair. He stopped abruptly. Where could he go?
He plopped down on the park bench across the road. Heat poured off him on this cool spring day. Kids raced across the grass, shouting and careening into each other as they fixated on their kites, whirling high in the sky. Irving saw them. No details registered. His brain froze. Fear sucked at him. How did she die? Could the bouquet or note lead to him? He might as well have signed his own death warrant with that note. He’d handwritten it. How dumb. Wait, he didn’t sign it. No way it could lead to him.
No one would pay attention to the flowers, he believed. He knew the meanings; she probably wouldn’t. Certainly her few friends would have more on their minds now then a nondescript bunch of dying stems.
Think. Damage control. Damage control. Work it through.
He hadn’t been seen near the woman’s house because he paid that sniveling little boy to deliver the bouquet. He’d watched from a side street and made sure he dropped it on that Bromfield woman’s front porch before he took off. The kid only saw a thin man with a floppy hat. He was too young to notice anything.
The car had been parked up the block. He waited for the perfect delivery boy. Alone, and young. Not so young he’d fear going down the lane to the lady’s house. And just old enough to want money, and have no way to earn it. This kid was his only choice in the hour he sat there.
He’d gotten out and flagged down the boy before he lost him. Okay. So that was safe. Nothing to pin to him. He’d paid five dollars in cash. The kid probably spent it on candy before he got home. The fiver wasn’t so memorable. Now, if it was a twenty, he might be in trouble.
It sure wasn’t his fault. There was absolutely nothing in that bunch of flowers that could have killed her. Talk about bad timing. The note was meant to scare her out of town. He sure didn’t want anyone around to complicate his plot.
He checked the date on the paper. Almost a week ago. Too bad he hadn’t seen it right away. Okay, so he never bothered buying a paper. This one was at the bottom of the pile on the shelf at the diner. It was sheer luck he saw it. If he’d seen it earlier though, it sure would have changed his game plan. He’d just paid a kid to deliver another bouquet and note—to Agatha Hartman.
Good show, Irving. You patted yourself on the back a little too soon.
Sniffling, he wiped his nose with his sleeve. His eyes darted around the park. All of a sudden he felt exposed. Yet no one stared at him. Still, it was time to head back home. This could be trivial. He would not become obsessed with the error. He jerked his body off the bench and strutted forward. He’d work something out. It was not the first time life had turned on him. This time he’d fight back.
Chapter 7
Individuals who have the ability to organize their daily routines and assimilate experiences while maintaining their integrity usually have good line spacing.
“So who’s our killer?”
Rita Mae Dobbs flounced in and settled her long skirts around her as she invited herself into Kat’s office chair in the public relations department.
“Have they found any suspiciously angry relatives?”
Last year no one would have described the septuagenarian frog aficionado as someone who flounced. Now, after she assisted Kat in catching a murderer on campus recently, her confidence was at an all time high. Her radar functioned well too, since she’d come to see if Kat needed any help with the latest murders. Kat marveled at Rita Mae’s sources, since Margaret’s death appeared to be natural causes, and Rosalin’s thought to be accidental.
“Hello to you, too. And how are you today?”
“Kat, let’s cut to the chase. It’s time we intervened a little; moved things along.”
Knowing when to acquiesce, Kat answered Rita Mae’s questions. “No one has declared either women murdered. Though we’re working on that premise.”
“So you are on the case.”
Kat shuffled her papers together and moved them out of the way. “No case.” She leaned forward and whispered, “What’s this about angry relatives? Do you know of any?”
Rita Mae shook her head.
“That’s too bad,” Kat said. “Detective Hill has been looking for relatives of Margaret. Hasn’t found anyone, yet. He’s still looking for her lawyer and will.”
“Phooey, that would have helped. How can she not have a will?”
“Agatha said she did. They just haven’t found it, yet. It should have been in her files at home. Detective Hill said it wasn’t there. Since Agatha had nothing to do with the will, she didn’t even know the lawyer’s name.”
“It’s a small town. How difficult can it be?”
“For all I know, Hill found him by now and hasn’t seen fit to let me in the loop. I’m working on it.”
Rita Mae stroked her gray enamel frog pin as she spoke. “I just heard Agatha disappeared.”
Kat nodded, not sure how much to reveal.
“She just didn’t show up for work at the herb shop today,” Rita Mae said worriedly. “Nobody knows where she is.”
Kat asked, “What are you thinking?”
“I’m real concerned, Katharine. You know I always believed Margaret didn’t just keel over and then Rosalyn dying so suspiciously. . . .”
Rita Mae kept nodding her head, as if that revealed all her thoughts.
Kat took heart and told the elderly woman that Agatha spirited herself away in fear and that she was safe. No one need know where. Rita Mae brightened considerably and ambled on about the tawdry nature of Professor Peterbolt.
Pulling her papers from the printer, Kat finally realized that the observant Miss Dobbs wasn’t digressing at all and interrupted, “Wasn’t Professor Peterbolt the one so angry about the soap incident?”
Rita Mae halted in mid-sentence. “Why of course; that’s why I think he killed those two dear women. He felt they cheated him out of profits from his new business.”
She plopped one Oxford clad foot next to the other.“Haven’t you been listening, Katharine?”
Kat only allowed Chief Burrows and Rita Mae to get away with calling her Katharine? Well, and Nick when he was angry. The word “allowed” didn’t apply there.
Kat knew that the acrimonious professor had developed a new soap product that the herb shop condemned as being dangerous to the skin. Later they came out with a similar product, minus the wrong quantity of the caustic ingredient and better for the skin. In deference to the woman’s age she smothered a retort and nodded sagely. Maybe it did deserve another look. She promised she’d find the legal records of the altercation and explore further. She hated the thought of pursuing a faculty member for murder. On the other hand, she al
ways followed a possibility wherever it led.
They discussed Margaret’s background and the need to learn more from Agatha regarding the running of the herb farm and the store. A long conversation the night before with Agatha provided Kat the basic employee information which she passed on to Rita Mae.
“Before Agatha went into hiding, she’d hired Fanny Endicott to replace Rosalin. Agatha thinks she’s too new to handle it all on her own, though. She said that Fanny’s flamboyant hippy trappings hid the steel mind that could hone figures with a razor edge.”
“Wow. I like that wording. Better than Browning.”
“Not mine. That came directly from Agatha. She said that when not in sharpening mode, Fanny’s mind turned creative and Agatha hoped she could work out some programs for the customers that would draw more into the shop.”
Kat finally released her grief over the loss of her friends, in tears and mutterings. Rita Mae’s kind sparkling eyes and happy expression made one think she carried a fun secret with her at all times, but today she remained calm and sympathetic. She recalled what she knew about Margaret and George. She finished, “They loved each other dearly, and he was the salt of the earth. I remember seeing him at eighty, out with his chain saw helping people with their deadfall after a storm. He nimbly bounced over one log to another—in his element.”
Her stories got Kat to stop crying and reminisce instead. A frequent shopper at Bittersweet Herbs, Kat remembered how Margaret always provided something extra when she manned the counter, making a special effort to find out information the buyer needed on the nature of particular herbs or bits of lore. She knew the history of each herb’s healing powers. She created hand-designed product tags with beautiful decorations that many customers kept for bookmarks.
On the other hand, Agatha was a young sixty-five and the mainstay of the herbal shop that sold the dried flowers in town from the farm. The shop owed its success to the location on the tourist pathway to numerous local resorts. “Remember how she balanced the needs of the shop with the offerings available from the farm? She supervised the plan for the next plantings at the farm to support the changing needs of the shop.”
Kat admired how Bittersweet Herbs exuded the image of the rural country store, despite the encroaching suburbia. It sold loose herbs, books, bottles, and herbal products like wreaths and wall hangings. The list included sachets, extracts, soaps, lotions, creams, decorative products, and gift baskets.
The two women vowed to see what they could do to find Margaret’s killer and, hopefully, clear the shop and farm employees of suspicion. They made a list of questions. It grew quickly.
Kat needed to find more details on the employees at the herb farm, and those working in the herbal shop. All three women worked there. She thought aloud to include Rita Mae. “The store must be the connection, unless Rosalin had a closer association with the farm than I knew. Discovering everything we can about the three victims rates the top of our list. Agatha, as the only one alive, would serve as prime source there, as well as other employees.”
Kat reviewed what she knew. Rosalin’s British background, reserved salesmanship, and cool demeanor served as a counterbalance to Agatha and Margaret’s down home friendliness. She and Agatha had said as much when they prepared the obituary. Kat wished they’d been able to include more warmth but Agatha was barely coherent that day. Kat felt that, all-in-all, Rosalin could be proud of those final words.
The woman ran a clean and precise set of books. Her work was immaculate. Not everyone could say that. Agatha had moaned over her loss to the store as well as the loss of her friendship.
Rita Mae couldn’t help but insert: “Rosalin resembled a horse with her long face and dreamy expression, a throwback to her ancestral name and her Spanish heritage on her mother’s side. Her work and her attitude were pure icy Brit when she needed it.” She smiled in remembrance and added, “Seldom did one see her feisty nature, coated with generations from the brisk English countryside, and only showed it to close friends.”
When their smiles faded, Kat mentally reviewed possible volunteers, hoping a few names might pop up to help with the store while Agatha hid. Kat realized that Rita Mae was the perfect person. She had seen Rita Mae Dobbs in her disguise—wig, leggings and short skirt. She knew the woman gambled at the races and was one of the top donors to the university, anonymously, of course. On campus the dear woman read Elizabeth Barrett Browning, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and sat and drank tea in a corner of the coffee room at the same table for years. The quintessential grandmotherly type. The closest she came to children was her collection of hundreds of frogs. They pranced around her office and decorated the walls of her home, all motionless in artistic splendor.
Thank heaven Rita Mae arrived. What better spy and shop assistant could she find? As an anthropology professor of forty-five years at the university, the woman was free for the summer. She explained the situation to her to bring her on board. “All new programs can wait till we find the murderer. But we could use a spy.”
Rita Mae’s eyes widened.
Kat quickly developed a plot to use this elderly, but spry, woman as a plant in the shop. Rita’s writing, with clean and even line spacing revealed a person who would work with clarity and a sense of order. Her round, careful commas and periods suggested a meticulous mind.
Kat knew Agatha could use help in the shop while she was out, but the detective in her mostly wanted Rita Mae to listen to gossip and look for clues. Kat leaned forward and whispered her plan. Rita Mae grinned delightedly the more she heard.
Chapter 8
Researches in neuroscience have discovered that specific neurological brain patterns represent certain personality traits. Each pattern produces a unique muscular movement, unconsciously. Therefore, each stroke reveals a personality trait.
On Friday night, Kat settled in with a relaxing novel while imbibing Raspberry Zinger tea. Agatha retreated to the guest bedroom, her quilting bag in hand, jiggling to the beat seeping from her headphones. Kat questioned her earlier, attempting a logical course to follow in finding the antagonist. They both assumed that Agatha’s flowers posed a message or threat. Clues were slim and Agatha was stressed. As an escape valve she explained to her hostess the intricacies of the quilt pieces she carried everywhere to work on in stray moments.
“I’ll work on these until I fall asleep. Maybe my subconscious will assemble the answers in the morning.”
Kat understood and provided Agatha the space she needed.
Nick arrived late, bubbling with the enthusiasm of a surprise held in check, and convinced her to pack a bag.
“Tonight will be one of lavish excess beyond your dreams,” he pronounced like a court crier with an exaggerated bow.
His eagerness spurred hers and she rushed to do his bidding. He waylaid any concerns for Agatha’s safety, pointing out that no one knew her whereabouts except Burrows and Detective Hill. The detective had already arranged for time the following day to interview Agatha again. Kat called and asked him if he could see his way to some extra security surveillance throughout the weekend.
Out front, a silver heaven on wheels soaked up the last of the sun. She learned it was a Mercedes SL63 Roadster, beyond elegance, bordering on the sinister. He expounded, “With this car, unbridled luxury coddles as the standard, with the cushiest leather, burled wood and sleek instrumentation.”
“You sound like a sales brochure.”
“Baby, I’m a whole billboard. This car is amazing.”
Though Nick’s ravings were understandable, Kat assumed his mental meanderings were the symptoms of all males roped into the “car” syndrome. The usually restrained Nick effervesced as he showed off one novelty after another, barely pointing out one knob or lever before bouncing around to the next. Confronted with the extravagance, and the whopping $150,000 price tag, Kat’s heart settled into a livable rhythm only when he explained it was on loan for a case.
“Hop in. I’ll explain on the way.”
&n
bsp; Kat attempted to oblige, but one didn’t just hop into a throne. She squirmed and writhed around a little to find the softest spot in the buttery leather.
Once settled, Kat questioned. “Okay, so we didn’t re-mortgage the house to pay for this toy. What’s happening?” Kat knew the security agency started a new scam to scam the scammers. Sometimes she barely managed to keep track of all the cases Nick and his partner, G. L. Petingill the III, tackled.
Nick laid out the details of their investigation to date as he settled back more comfortably in the driver’s seat. “We’ve got a line on some new developers in the area, working to build a resort they claim will outshine the best around.”
Kat eased her mind out of the mental cocoon the luxurious car provided and asked him about his progress. “So what’s the angle? Why the investigation?”
“On the surface, everything seems legit. Our clients have no power to change the situation, except there seems to be a question of destruction and scare tactics to gather up the necessary land.”
Though a public relations official by trade, Kat was born a journalist and sensed a good story. “Tell me more.”
Nick deftly steered the car through some late-day traffic and added, “One resort developer is gathering up the land by whatever means he can. He’s also zeroed in on false financing. That’s where we are trying to break in.”
While digesting the information, Kat studied the dashboard. She said, “This carries more electronic wizardry than my computer. Nick explained that much of its prowess hid beneath the surface, while Kat tried to comprehend what more a car needed than the steering wheel and the normal stuff under the hood that turned the wheels.
Her husband continued his explanation as he drove. “We’re sure some owners were driven out. There are still a few left and they’re feeling the pressure.”
As Nick turned practically on two wheels around a curve, she noticed the car seemed to slow down rather than speed up. Kat sat back in concern. “Whoa. What was that?”