“You think she'll tell the same story?” Theo whispered.
Tony watched as Beth stopped to talk to Dottie and Jane. He rolled his shoulders until they loosened up enough to stop cracking.
“Don't forget about Mr. Beasley.” Releasing her hair, Theo waved her hands for emphasis. “Didn't you say the voice on the message sounded like Art's?”
“There is no evidence the two deaths are connected.” Tony dodged her hands. “Certainly, the causes of death are not similar. I intend to investigate them separately.” He flipped back in his notes. “Now then, assuming she was the intended victim and not a random one, who besides the quilters would know Scarlet was going to be up here?”
“Well, everyone who knows her, probably.” Theo stopped and her eyes widened. “And everyone who reads the paper.”
“The paper? It was in the paper?” There was as close to a squeak in his voice as his rumbling bass was able to produce. “When? Why?”
“It was in the community calendar stuff in the latest edition. You know, like when AA meets and where the garage sale will be held to benefit the scouts.” She closed her eyes. “I'm trying to see the piece. I'm sure it listed all of the names of the participants and the location of the retreat and invited anyone interested to call me for more information about the retreat or Scarlet's class.” Opening her eyes again, she straightened her glasses and peered at him. “Now that I think about it, it was unusual. I don't remember Winifred ever doing an advance notice before.”
A sensation of dawning horror twisted Tony's gut. “I'm going to have to talk to Winifred. She should know better than to put that kind of information in the paper before it happens. It's an invitation to burglars. Why not just say that Mrs. So and So will be out of town for the weekend, so take your time and steal everything including the wallpaper?”
“Uh, Sheriff?” From the shadows came a quiet, seemingly disembodied voice.
Tony focused on the origin. One of the younger investigators from the TBI was headed toward him. “What is it?” Tony could hear Vince, the lead investigator, bellowing something in the distance.
“We're ready to leave.” Casting a worried look over his shoulder, he clutched his clipboard to his chest with both hands.
Frankly relieved, Tony reached for his pen. “So you have a few hundred papers for me to sign?”
“Yes, sir.” Ramrod straight, the boy looked like he was ready to click his heels and salute. He handled the clipboard of papers like it was the Holy Grail. Tony could tell Vince hadn't trained him. Vince could slouch in any position and thought paperwork was a communist plot. His idea of a salute was lifting a can of beer to eye level before attaching his lips to it. Luckily for law enforcement, Vince was able to overcome his prejudice against paperwork long enough to keep the lawyers happy. He was one of the best. The man could find flea footprints on an Old English sheepdog.
Beth arrived at the alcove after the young man left. “Do you need something, Tony?”
“I need to get a statement from you about last night. Just routine.” He waved her into the chair. Beth complied, but she sat on the very edge of the seat as if poised for action. “Can you tell me about last night?”
Theo rolled her chair back to rejoin the quilters.
“I . . . that is, we went to bed when the news was over. I watched some old movie for a while and turned the TV off. Midnight, I guess.” She toyed with a paper napkin in her lap.
Tony watched. At the rate she was going, there would be nothing but confetti in a few more seconds.
“Art was already asleep. It didn't take me long to fall asleep and I didn't hear anything.”
Her eyes moved constantly and never seemed to focus on him at all. She, like everyone he had talked with so far, looked exhausted. Freshly applied, her heavy makeup did not conceal the dark circles under her eyes but instead seemed to emphasize them.
“Did you awaken when Art left or when he returned?” Tony tried a trick question.
“I think I remember him returning but it is not real clear.” Apparently fascinated by what she had done to the paper napkin, she focused on the scraps and with painstaking precision, rolled them into a ball. “I'm kind of used to it by now.”
“But you're sure he left? Do you know what time?” Tony sensed her whole story was a fabrication. Why?
“Oh, but I'm not sure he left. He might have because he does sometimes, but I just don't know.” Tears slipped down her face, leaving tracks of mascara on her cheeks. “I don't remember.”
The one thing Tony felt positive about was Beth was not any better at lying than her husband was. They were covering something up together and hadn't had time to get the story straight. But what? Tony had no idea. “I'll probably have more questions for you later, but for now, you can go.” Beth jumped off the chair and headed away from him before he finished his sentence.
Tony was staring at her rapidly departing back when his cell phone rang. The call came in from dispatch. “I just thought you'd want to know, Sheriff, there's been some disturbance or shooting or something going on at the Oak Lawn Trailer Courts. Roscoe Morris called it in, and I sent a unit over to investigate.”
Tony recognized the voice, Flavio Weems, the new dispatcher. “And you called me because?” Tony made a mental note to talk to Rex about his dispatch team. Most of them were highly qualified and, if not as eerily calm as Rex himself, managed to do the job well. But Flavio was the exception. His conscientiousness and his skills were okay, but his judgment could use a lot of improvement. Still, all in all, he did a decent job and showed way more astuteness than any of the other member of the Weems clan.
“Well, just in case it's connected to the business up at The Lodge.” Flavio sounded a bit less confident that he'd done the right thing by calling.
“What kind of disturbance?” Tony wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer. With the murder of Scarlet LaFleur, sister to a worldwide celebrity, Tony felt he had as much on his plate as he could handle. The ordinary crimes of Park County were sounding more controllable than usual.
“Well, Roscoe was screaming into the phone so loudly I couldn't understand, but I clearly heard ‘gun’ and ‘shooting’ and Quentin. Sheriff, I can believe someone would take a couple of shots at Quentin Mize.”
“Okay, okay, I've got the picture.” He disconnected without another word. Then he watched Theo practicing her wheelchair turns. He winced when she almost ran over an elderly woman in the lobby. She rammed into a huge flowerpot instead. When she glanced at him, he walked over to tell her he had to go.
“I'm leaving. I'm done here, and Roscoe Morris has reported gunshots at the trailer court involving Quentin.”
“At this hour? Isn't it a bit late for the Friday night crowd? Or is it early for Saturday night?”
“I doubt if Quentin knows if it is day or night. He's fallen off the wagon and is drinking again.” Brains not being Quentin's strong suit, Tony seriously doubted someone was shooting at him unless he had provoked the incident and knew exactly who was working the trigger. It wouldn't be the first time someone had shot at Quentin. When he drank, his belligerence factor was followed closely by sheer stupidity. His home away from home was the Okay Bar and Bait Shop. Tony simply couldn't imagine what was going on. Why was Roscoe involved? Quentin had a home up on the mountain.
“Maybe he has a girlfriend.” Theo yawned into her hand.
Not listening carefully to his wife, he answered the wrong question. “Roscoe? Sure he does. She's a vending machine, remember? Quentin, I'm not as sure of.” Tony's focus was on the group by the front door. Art held the door open, but his attention was on his own wife. Beth stood by his side. The couple was involved in a serious conversation. Beth glanced in Tony's direction several times during the course of it, and each time she looked back to her husband he shook his head. Finally, Beth headed toward Tony, but Art released his hold on the door and reached for her instead. Something he said to her stopped her completely. After a long moment, she moved slo
wly away from her husband and went back into their apartment without looking at any of them.
“Now what do you suppose?” Theo said.
“Whatever he said to her was a surprise, wouldn't you agree?” Tony continued to watch the action.
“Yes, but at least he didn't tell her he has a girlfriend.”
Her words brought Tony's attention around to her. “He has a girlfriend? Art? How do you know?” Fascination and surprise were written all over his face.
Theo's toes connected with his leg. “Isn't that what we were talking about?”
“No.” Tony rubbed the back of his neck and then his stomach. “You asked if Roscoe had a girlfriend, and then you said something about Art having a girlfriend.” Tony grinned. He couldn't help himself. Sometimes he would just wind his wife up for the fun of it. He tried to mask his amusement, but she realized what he'd done.
She began to laugh. “Does anybody have a girlfriend?”
Tony gave the question serious thought. “No one I can think of.”
Before Theo could respond, the lobby suddenly became a busy place. Beth came from the kitchen area pushing a wheeled table. She maneuvered it down the ramp to the quilters' area and spread a white damask cloth over it. Like the wise men bearing gifts, three teenaged girls carrying baskets of rolls, stacks of plates and pump-style coffee dispensers followed her. Unlike the wise men, they chattered about the discovery of Scarlet's body, and one girl all but fainted from the excitement. Some of the guests, who must have been watching for the food, arrived before they were completely set up. Beth issued directives like a general. The girls hurried to do their jobs.
“How did she get into the kitchen? Didn't we just watch her go into the apartment?” Theo peered down the hallway. The kitchen was on the opposite side of the building from the apartment and business offices.
“Good question.” Tony started walking toward the kitchen. It seemed as if they would have spotted her if she'd used the hallway. He stopped one of the girls. “Is there a shortcut from the kitchen to the Trimbles' apartment?”
The girl started to shake her head and then stopped. “Oh, yeah, I forgot for a minute.” Her eyes widened, and Tony saw she wore contact lenses designed to make her eyes look like cats' eyes. “There is some kind of a hallway in the basement. I think it's used for storage, but I've never been down there.” Noticing Tony was staring at her eyes, she blinked a couple of times for effect. “The stairs are behind the door right next to the outside door from the kitchen.” With what sounded like a “meow,” she vanished through the kitchen's swinging doors.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Feeling like he had covered what he could at The Lodge, which seemed insignificant, Tony decided to drop by the Oak Lawn Trailer Court on his way back to town.
The turnoff to the Oak Lawn was halfway between Silersville and The Lodge. At one time there had been a decorative sign pointing the way. Now, however, there was just a slab of weather-beaten plywood with crudely painted letters that read Oak Traile Par.
Thirty years ago when it was first constructed, the Oak Lawn had been nicely landscaped and all of the residents lived in new mobile homes with their own small yards. But now, after years of neglect, accumulated garbage and kudzu, it was little better than an open cesspool. By all accounts, Roscoe loved it there. His home had once been white with red trim and decorative shutters and had an attached covered porch. The shutters were gone now, except for one, and it dangled from a single bolt. Instead of the steps, an aluminum stepladder provided access.
When Tony arrived, there were two patrol cars parked in the center. Roscoe stood in front of his trailer, talking to Deputy Sheila Teffeteller. Deputy Darren Holt stood nearby talking with a couple who shared an old RV across the way from Roscoe. The woman, dressed in a red tube top and lime green pajama bottoms, was shaking violently. For support, she seemed to be depending on the overgrown honeysuckle vine growing where there once had been an engine and hood of the RV. A couple of chickens wandered loose in the yard. A spotted hound of mixed breeding was sound asleep on an old backseat of some car. Every eye was focused on a rifle propped next to the door.
Roscoe's skinny white torso gleamed in the morning light. Dressed only in filthy jeans and a beer hat, Roscoe was smiling when he faced Sheila. His smile exposed more teeth than his mouth could hold. When Sheila pointed to the group by the RV and said something to him, Roscoe laughed so hard that he dropped to the ground. Sheila left him there and went to Tony's window.
“What's happening here?” Tony was relieved to see everything was apparently under control.
“A rifle shot passed through the trailer, just above Roscoe's bed. If he was fat, it would have hit him.” Sheila dug at the dirt with her heel. “Mrs. Smith over there claims she was having a fit of jealousy and fired the rifle for emphasis. We think the bullet passed through the Smiths' wall and then continued on through Roscoe's wall.” Her smile lifted some of the fatigue from her face. “Roscoe is claiming ‘no harm, no foul.’ ”
“And what do you think?” Tony half-wondered where the other residents of the trailer park were.
“I'm going to get the bullet from Roscoe's trailer and bring in that .22.” She nodded to the rifle. “Their stories don't quite match up. I want to know if the bullets do, or if this is related to the other .22 shootings.”
“Speaking of stories,” Tony said. “I got a call from Flavio saying someone here was shooting at Quentin.”
“Quentin?” Sheila looked confused. “I haven't seen him around, but I'll certainly check it out. I know he and Roscoe have become buddies lately.”
Tony nodded, thankful the call had turned out to be nothing more serious.
“Uh, sir, I did hear something maybe related to the death up at The Lodge.” Sheila cleared her throat again. “I'm not sure how information travels around here, but it seems to get around. Was Art Trimble at home last night?”
Tony smiled, sensing he was about to learn something good. “Funny you should ask. I'm not sure one way or the other, but Theo claims she saw him fully dressed and returning to the hotel about three in the morning. About the same time she found the body. Why?”
“Because I was told Art, Claude and Prudence were making mischief together.”
“Mischief?” Tony studied her expression. He wondered what connection the hotel owner and the trash hauler could have with the hairdresser/fortune teller. The same woman who was married to his deputy Darren Holt, who stood only twenty feet away. “Who says mischief?”
“So true. I heard it from Pops Ogle. You know he can't use strong language. He about choked saying ‘mischief.’ He'd pass out cold if he heard some of the things I hear every day.” Sheila laughed. “I think he's a gentleman. Anyway, he said he was on his way home from a late night music session with Dan-the-Dulcimer Man when he saw Art, Claude and Prudence all clustered around some of the highway department equipment. They were over by the turnoff to the possible ancient burial ground.”
“Did you notify the highway department to check their equipment?” Tony reached into his pocket for the last of his antacids before remembering he'd chewed them hours earlier. “If they've tampered with the machinery and someone gets hurt . . .” He didn't have to finish his statement.
Sheila was already nodding. “I called Flavio. He said he'd notify them.”
Satisfied, Tony left her to deal with the paperwork and headed back to town, thinking about her words.
Theo could barely work on her project and keep her ears open to the conversations around her. Most were focused on the death of Scarlet. All of the ladies had taken a turn at being interviewed about what they had seen and heard during the night. In the case of the most elderly ladies, their stories hadn't been worth talking about, but the experience was thrilling for them. A couple of them were already looking forward to sharing the excitement with their friends and the ladies at church.
The Trimbles were acting very peculiar. Theo witnessed lots of whispered conversations betw
een the two of them and what looked like, from across the lobby, an intense and prolonged argument culminated by Beth Trimble stalking into the apartment and slamming the door behind her. Seconds later, she left the apartment, slamming the door behind her again, disappeared into the kitchen for a couple of minutes and returned to the apartment, carrying a heavy tray that held two bottles of wine along with a platter of something like nachos. After the door slammed the third time, Theo was sure everyone heard the lock clicking into place.
Art watched his wife from his perch near the front desk. When the last sound died, he turned to the gathering of quilters and smiled—a half-hearted smile to be sure—and announced that lunch would be served in about fifteen minutes. He went on to comment about how welcome the rain had been after so many days of sunshine. He pulled a paperback book out of a drawer and settled into a comfortable position and began to read, ignoring their curious faces.
As if realizing the argument between hotel proprietors followed a pattern well known by the players involved, it didn't receive any comment from the women.
Theo watched Martha pace in the lobby until Theo finally snapped at her. “They are going to have to arrest me for killing you if you don't settle down somewhere.” Theo paused to thread her needle. “You're wearing me and the carpet out.” She glanced over the top of her glasses at Tony's aunt. “No one thinks you've done anything wrong. Do you think you killed the woman in your sleep?”
Susan winked and pointed to an empty chair near her. “If you will sit and relax a while, I promise to bake you a cake with a hacksaw in it if you get arrested.”
“Even better would be a small appliqué project.” Dottie interjected. “A miniature Baltimore album quilt would fit into a cake and still keep her busy until she is out on parole.” Dottie moaned, her voice filled with fear. “All those tiny leaves and berries.”
Melissa leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “I can see it now: a hollow cake filled with fabric, scissors, needles and thread. I can only hope someone will remember to include a package of chocolates. It might not be a bad life. Just think, no decisions about dinner menus, no mud tracked across the kitchen floor, no homework to check.” Opening her eyes, she looked at her friends. “Maybe I'll confess, and then I'll have enough time to work on my own projects.”
Barbara Graham - Quilted 03 - Murder by Music Page 11