by Kay Finch
My mind raced as I studied his expression. “Is this secret, perhaps, related to the tenth of April?” Their wedding anniversary.
Bryan looked at Hitchcock. “I knew I said too much for a smart aleck like her.” Then, to me, “Not one word about this conversation to Tyanne. Promise me.”
“Sure, if you promise you’ll keep trying to remember every little detail you might have stuck in your subconscious about Jane.”
“I already told you—”
“Then try harder, Bryan. I’d really hate you sitting in jail on the day you wanted to reveal your big secret.”
“I get it, but now I really have to finish this job. I’m way behind schedule.”
“Okay, okay.” I gathered Hitchcock into my arms. “You have my number. Let me know if anything comes to you.”
He nodded his agreement. “Will do.”
I turned to leave and was rounding the house when I heard him call out.
“Hey, Sabrina.”
I looked over my shoulder to see him coming after me.
“There was one odd thing,” he said.
“What is it?”
“I saw Jane, maybe a week ago. Not at the library. This was in town—on the street near the bookstore.”
“Was she with someone?”
“No. She was walking alone, but it seemed like she kept looking over her shoulder.”
“Was it nighttime?”
“No,” he said. “Middle of the morning.”
“Where were you?”
“In my truck. I’d dropped Tyanne at the bookstore when I saw Jane hurrying in the opposite direction.”
“Did you see anything she might have been worried about?”
“There was a man on foot. Maybe watching her. Not trying to chase her. More like hiding and watching.”
“Anyone you know?”
“Nope.”
“What’d he look like?”
“He was big. Thick, dark hair, and a beard. Black clothes. Might sound dumb, but what sticks out to me is he looked like some guy right out of The Godfather.”
Chapter 25
Bryan and I may have grown up in the Goodfellas generation of gangster movies, but everyone knew The Godfather. There was a type to the actors who played the leads, and Fred Costello fit the profile. Odds were that he was the guy Bryan saw watching Jane—the same man I saw sitting in the car outside the bookstore a few days ago.
Before leaving Bryan to his work, I extracted two promises. One, tell Tyanne everything about his meetings with the sheriff before she heard the details from someone else. Two, ask the other guys at the construction site if they’d seen Costello hanging around.
As I drove away, I wondered if Bryan felt as confident about the situation as he acted. The sheriff wouldn’t have called me in to ask me questions about Bryan if he was completely satisfied with Bryan’s alibi, so I was still worried. Per the sheriff’s request, I hadn’t said one word to Bryan about our meeting and I sure as heck wouldn’t mention it to Tyanne.
I wasn’t going to find any helpful clues by driving around the countryside, so I headed for home. Someone at the cottages—Aunt Rowe, Glenda, or one of the guests—would know more about Costello. You couldn’t get a group of women together without them noticing a lone man in the vicinity. They probably knew every move Costello made.
On the drive, I wondered what had caused Jane Alcott to become not only a murder victim but also a burglary target. My ruminations caused me to worry about Kylie. I pulled in at the next roadside rest and put in a call to check on her.
Kylie sounded exhausted when she answered the phone—not surprising for a woman at the end of her pregnancy with other children to care for, plus a work-from-home job to boot.
“I heard about the break-in,” I said after we exchanged greetings. “Do you need help getting everything back in order?”
“Appreciate the offer,” she said, “but no worries. My mom is here. She came in and steamrolled her way through the house. That’s her M.O. Washed everything five times. Sterilized all surfaces. Caught up the laundry and the grocery shopping. Today she rented a machine to shampoo carpets.”
“She must have tons of energy.”
“She does, with some left to corral the kids.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Fat,” she said.
“Sounds like you’re in good hands, though, and I’m so sorry about what happened. Do you think it was random?” I didn’t but I wanted to hear her thoughts.
“No way,” Kylie said. “They were searching for something.”
“What did they take?”
“Everything with Jane’s name on it,” she said. “All the mail that I’d stacked up and saved for Jane. I planned to give it to her the next time I saw her, but—” Her voice choked off. “Sorry, my hormones are crazy.”
“Totally understandable,” I said. “What about personal items? Jane must have had photos, things that had sentimental value.”
“Nothing like that here. She always said she liked to travel light.”
“Travel from where?”
“Good question. I have no idea.”
There weren’t many personal items in Mrs. Honeycutt’s apartment either, aside from Jane’s books.
“I hope you won’t have to move out,” I told Kylie. “You shouldn’t because, unless Jane’s family shows up, there’s no one to kick you out.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Kylie said. “The house isn’t in Jane’s name. I checked on it after I heard about her death. This place is owned by a company based in Costa Rica. My mom’s digging into that, too, through a lawyer friend.”
I spent much of the drive back thinking about Kylie’s revelation and the possibility of a mysterious owner that somehow played a part in Jane’s life. Much as I would have loved to chat with Kylie’s mom about this issue, I had to keep my focus intact. That thought was reinforced when I got home and saw the Crop Shop ladies had already returned. They milled around in front of Aunt Rowe’s house and appeared to be admiring her flower beds. I drove by slowly and noticed Naomi as she carefully picked her way along the sidewalk, no doubt taking extra care to avoid the sidewalk cracks. If she kept up the awkward shuffle in that walking boot, she’d likely take another fall.
I was eager to learn everything I could about Fred Costello. I’d bet he had a connection of some sort to Jane Alcott and might know bits about her that, so far, he hadn’t shared with anyone. Of course, there was always the possibility that my imagination was pulling these ideas out of nowhere. One of the hazards of being a fiction writer.
I wanted to take advantage of having the Crop Shop Crew together in one place, so I hurriedly took Hitchcock home where he’d be safe. I put the cat, along with everything he’d need, in the bathroom. I gave him an extra-long chin rub, then dropped a treat on the rug where he sat. “You know I love you, Hitchcock, but you have to lay low while Naomi is here. Okay?”
“Mrreow,” he said.
When I got back to Aunt Rowe’s house, the women weren’t in sight. A high level of chatter emanated from the house, though, and I figured they had all gone inside. I let myself in the back door and nearly ran into Aunt Rowe where she stood with Glenda by the utility room. It sounded like the others had congregated in the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” I said. “I thought y’all would still be out zip-lining. Did something happen?”
“Now, Sabrina,” Aunt Rowe said. “You’re assuming we can’t handle anything zippy, aren’t you?”
“Well . . .” I said.
“The only thing that happened is we learned tomorrow is their senior citizen discount day. Ten bucks is ten bucks.”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“And if we buy a three-fer we each save thirty.” She grinned with pleasure.
“Quite the bargain,” Glenda said.
Aunt Rowe gave her the eye. “Do I detect a note of sarcasm?”
“From me?” Glenda placed a hand on her chest. “Never
in a million years.”
I glanced toward the kitchen. “So what’s everybody doing here? I take it you have a new plan.”
“That’s right,” Aunt Rowe said.
“They’re on a quest for the perfect piecrust,” Glenda said.
“Are you saying there’s someone here who’s never made piecrust in her life and put that on a bucket list?”
“No, no,” Aunt Rowe said. “There’s a debate about the ingredients. Some swear by vinegar. Others say sour cream is the secret. Maybe you could give us some pointers.”
“I don’t use either,” I said, “but I’m not opposed to learning.”
“Good.” Aunt Rowe headed into the kitchen. “We stopped on the way home and bought everything we’d need. Later, we’re going line dancing at the Wild Pony Saloon. You two can come along if you like.”
I glanced over my shoulder at Glenda.
“This is my cue to go home to my husband, who wouldn’t go line dancing if you paid him,” she said. “I’ll be back in time to start dinner.”
I waved bye to Glenda and followed Aunt Rowe into the kitchen, where the women were already lined up with flour measured into the bowls in front of each of them. The other ingredients and pie plates stood at the ready.
I opened the cabinet above the oven and pulled out the plastic mat I often used and a rolling pin. “My secret to rolling out dough,” I said with a smile as I unrolled my mat, “keeps the mess down. Sorry we don’t have one for each of you.”
“We’ll be careful,” Ashley said.
I remembered her and Naomi and tried to recall the other women’s names. Suellen, Barbara, Megan, Joan. No—Barbara with the gray curls, Megan with the straighter-than-straight brown hair, Joan the strawberry blonde, Suellen with the messy ponytail.
“We’ll clean up after ourselves,” said the woman I’d decided was Joan, “but let’s get this show on the road. I need time to get dolled up before we go dancing.”
“You get dolled up for a trip to buy groceries,” Barbara said.
“So do I,” said Suellen. “Never know who you might meet, and some of those guys who hand out the wine samples in the store are kind of cute.”
I rolled my eyes and didn’t notice until too late that Naomi was using her phone and caught a picture of me.
“I’m the dedicated photographer,” she said, “because, as you well know, I can’t dance due to the bad luck that caused me to sprain my ankle.”
I ignored the jab and measured flour into my bowl.
“Give it a rest, Naomi,” said Joan.
I smiled my thanks to her and said, “Do y’all have one recipe that you’re using?”
Barbara said, “My mother always swore by putting vinegar in her piecrust.”
“Piecrust is piecrust,” Suellen said. “I only care about what’s inside.”
“Oh, no,” Naomi said. “Every good pie deserves a great crust.”
Why had I thought I could get information out of these women? They wouldn’t stop talking long enough for me to ask a question.
“You know the best thing about line dancing?” said Suellen.
“What’s that?” Megan said.
“I was going to say it’s you don’t need a partner, and we don’t have any. Except that Miss Smarty Pants Ashley will have a partner.” She eyed Ashley. “This is hardly fair.”
Ashley smiled, but it seemed forced.
I turned to her. “Who’s your partner?”
Joan, standing next to Ashley, fluttered her eyelashes and put on a dreamy-eyed expression with a hand on her cheek. In a fake tone, she said, “Oh, Fred, you’re so handsome. Would you possibly consider going dancing with me tonight?”
“I did not act that way,” Ashley said.
The other women chimed in with “uh-huh,” “she got it right,” and “you certainly did.”
“You’re taking Mr. Costello dancing tonight?” I said.
“Fred,” Ashley said.
“She sure is,” Aunt Rowe said.
I picked up the pastry cutter and started working cold butter into my flour. Maybe there was hope for my plan after all.
“Man looks a little scary to me,” Barbara said.
Megan said, “You scare too easy.”
“He’s not exactly tall, dark, and handsome,” Suellen said. “Maybe stocky, dark, and intense.”
“You ladies should stop pestering her,” I said. “I’ve never had more than a few words with the man. Where is he from?”
Ashley shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Somewhere up north,” Barbara said, “judging by his accent.”
I chuckled. “Up north is a wide area.”
“That’s a Brooklyn accent if I ever heard one,” Suellen said. “We lived up there for a while in the nineties.”
“He’s trying to lose the accent,” Barbara said. “Guess he’ll have to try harder.”
“Is he purposely trying to sound like he belongs here?” I said.
“I think he wants to fit in,” Aunt Rowe said.
Suellen said, “He’s even trying to use ‘y’all’ instead of ‘you guys.’ Have you noticed he’s changed up his wardrobe a little, too?”
“I did notice that,” I said. “Nice of him wanting to fit in here in Lavender. Maybe acting like a Texan is on his bucket list.”
“I don’t know about that,” Megan said, “but he mentioned he’d like to get to know everyone better. He wants to know how this town ticks.”
“Huh,” I said.
“I’ve been around the block a few times,” Barbara said, “and I don’t trust him.”
“I’m not going to marry the man,” Ashley said.
“Lighten up, girls,” Aunt Rowe said.
“Can’t.” Barbara sprinkled a tad more flour into her bowl. “Ever since I heard him asking questions about how that poor woman was killed, lookin’ at the guy gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
Chapter 26
After eating more pie than a sane person should eat in one sitting, I went back to my place carrying a foil-covered plate that held a sampling of pecan, apple, and banana cream pies. I quickly stashed the plate in the refrigerator and released Hitchcock from the bathroom. The cat gave me the cold shoulder at first. When I sat down, though, he nudged my arm aside to sit on my lap while I mulled over the latest bit of new information.
Why would Fred Costello be so interested in how Jane was killed? He wasn’t a medical examiner, for crying out loud. Was he trying to insinuate he had nothing to do with the murder, because if he did, he would obviously already know the method of murder? Everything the man said might be a big act. Or maybe I only had this thought since we had likened the man to an actor playing a gangster.
Tyanne was my go-to person for talking through a puzzle, but this case was different because of Bryan. I didn’t want to cause her more stress by bringing up the murder. Then again, leaving her out of the loop might cause her more agitation.
I looked down at Hitchcock as I stroked his fur. “I saw Ty yesterday, but it seems like a week. How about we take a trip to the bookstore?”
“Mrreow,” Hitchcock said.
Thirty minutes later, Ethan looked up when we walked into Knead to Read. He smiled at me, then glanced down at Hitchcock. “Are the kids coming to read to the cats?”
“Not to my knowledge.” I glanced around the store, looking for Tyanne, and set the pie plate I’d brought with me on the counter. “We missed y’all and wanted to visit.”
“What’d you bake this time?” He always asked even though he’d be happier if I brought him something from a meat market.
“A variety of pies,” I said. “We were testing piecrusts, and the recipe with the sour cream came out the winner.”
“Sour cream?” Ethan made a face. “Ewww.”
I laughed at his expression. “Of course, we couldn’t let those pie shells go to waste. Want some?”
“I’ll pass,” he said.
Tyanne poked her head out from behind
a bookshelf. “Did I hear someone say pie?”
“You sure did.” I grinned, then stooped to unhook Hitchcock’s leash. He immediately jumped up on the front windowsill to greet Zelda and Willis. I turned back to my friend. She looked run-down, and my heart went out to her. I wondered if she had purposely chosen the vivid purple top in an attempt to brighten her mood—or maybe because the fabric was a perfect match for her purple Crocs.
“I’m ready for a coffee break,” she said. “How about you?”
“It’s always a good time for coffee.”
I took the pie with me and we walked into the store’s kitchenette. I smelled a freshly brewed pot of coffee, and we each picked up a mug.
“How are you doing?” I said.
“Fine.” Tyanne’s smile faded too fast.
She was reaching for the coffeepot when Ethan called out, “Tyanne, here comes Mrs. Masters for that order.”
She put her mug down. “Let me take care of this. I’ll be just a minute.”
I filled my mug and sipped the soothing hot drink.
Behind me, I heard a slight rustle, then, “She’s not fine.”
I spun and spotted Abby Clark, Tyanne’s eldest, sitting on the floor by a box, a pile of books, and some bubble wrap. Abby’s curly blonde hair was in a long braid and she wore a blue shirt and khaki skirt—the elementary school uniform. The girl appeared to be packing books for shipping. I checked on Ty and saw her across the store speaking with a woman.
I knelt by Abby. “She’s not okay? Why do you say that?”
“She hardly sleeps,” Abby said. “Sometimes she’s crying. I don’t know why people always say they’re fine when they’re not.”
“It’s a habit,” I said. “What do you think the problem is?”
“She’s worried.”
“And you’re worried about her, aren’t you?”
She nodded solemnly and watched me with earnest eyes. “Daddy, too. Can you help them, Sabrina?”
Abby was a bright child. She didn’t feel the need to ask me what her parents were concerned about, and I didn’t feel the need to explain anything to her. Chances were good that the girl had overheard her parents’ conversations or gossip at school. Besides, I had no business telling her things she didn’t already know.