A Dickens of a Crime

by Phyllis H Moore

  Miranda’s telling Meg about the harassment of her staff had sparked a hidden memory. Meg had never shared the incident with Dorie. When her daughter was a teenager, Meg would give her warnings to be careful, sometimes tempted to say, “Wait, let me tell you what happened to me.” But she didn’t. She was ashamed of allowing those men to berate her.

  That was the link that connected her to Miranda’s story, the shame. Even though she could clearly see that the young women on Miranda’s staff hadn’t provoked the harassment they had suffered, she couldn’t come to the same conclusion about herself. The shame was the worst of it.

  That incident, so long ago, had introduced her to the possibility of a panic attack. The actions of the men she’d encountered as a young woman inserted helplessness and shame into her own repertoire of emotions. Those feelings caused a visceral reaction to thoughts and reminders.

  Sometimes it angered her that those men could have that power over her still, all these years later. That exploitation and harassment could plague the strongest and the smartest, because shame could tamp down their intelligence and strength. If it could happen to her, it could happen to anyone.

  NINE

  Meg slept later than she intended, then rushed to get ready before leaving for brunch at Jean’s. Avoiding the red velvet costume heaped on the chair in her bedroom, Meg opened the draperies and made the bed. If she looked at the clothing, she’d have to touch it and hang it up, a cloying reminder of the previous evening.

  On the way to the market to pick up flowers, a hostess gift for Jean, Meg drove down Emory Lane on a whim, past the houses that had been featured on the tour during the Dickens Festival. The activities were over, but the decorations would remain through the holiday season. She liked seeing the homes decorated especially on a quiet Sunday. Slowing as she drove by Darrow House, she could see a light in the foyer. The chandelier glowed through the beveled glass on the entrance.

  Usually there were no lights on in Darrow House, especially on a Sunday morning, as all the lighting was on timers and limited to lamps and the Christmas tree. Meg turned down a side street so she could glance down the alley to the back entrance of Darrow. Pulling to the shoulder, she parked, hidden by a privet. Peering through Paul’s binoculars confirmed a car that looked like Tom Richards’s. Why would he be there on Sunday morning? She didn’t want to go in and find out, still slightly squeamish about going back inside after what she’d seen.

  Pulling onto the road once more, she would stay on her schedule for brunch with Jean and not get bogged down in tracking Tom.

  Sunshine on Jean’s outdoor holiday decorations made it difficult to believe there had been snow two days earlier. Meg had always liked Jean’s large prairie-style house, and the neighborhood as a whole, mostly brick homes with chunky columns and prominent porches.

  She parked on the street in front of the house and approached the entrance with a clay pot of deep red cyclamen. The flowers carried a spicy aroma as she made her way across the covered porch. The topiaries on either side of the wide front door, were wrapped with twinkling white lights outlining the cone-shaped rosemary. Meg inhaled the combined aromas of cyclamen and herb as she raised the heavy knocker on the door.

  Drying her hands on a red and white striped apron, Jean swung the door open and hugged her friend, ushering her into the open foyer. Jean took the plant as Meg pulled off a red knitted wrap and hung it with her purse on the coat-rack by the door.

  While Jean found a place for the cyclamen, Meg admired the tall Christmas tree. It stood next to a stone fireplace in Jean’s great room, a combined den and open kitchen. She looked over the tree for her favorite ornaments. Some had been gifts from Meg herself. The room was filled with the evergreen scent of the tree, baking bread, and fresh-brewed coffee, perfect for that time of year.

  Picking up a basket of muffins from the large island, Jean motioned to the sunroom off the back of the kitchen, a room where they often played bridge. A tree-studded yard and brick patio were visible through the mullioned, uncovered windows

  Jean had a small table set. An egg casserole, sausage, and grapefruit and pomegranate salad were displayed on the antique buffet. A large glass pitcher held orange juice and Jean had taken the time to place orange wedges on a plate beside it. There were whole oranges studded with cloves scattered along the buffet.

  “This looks lovely,” Meg said, with an appreciative smile. “You didn’t need to go to all this trouble.”

  “It’s my pleasure. We haven’t done this in a while, and I enjoyed putting it together. The holidays always make me want to have a get-together. I need an excuse for using the holiday napkins and dishes. I’d much rather have a gathering of two than fifty-two.”

  Meg laughed. “Entertaining really isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, is it? That must be what youth is for.”

  They filled their plates and talked about the upcoming visits Jean would have from children and grandchildren during the holidays. “You know they don’t even glance twice at a carefully planned vignette,” Jean laughed. “I have to pull out paper plates to save my sanity.”

  “Well, I appreciate it. The house looks so festive and smells delicious. I’m not inspired to get the decorations out this year. We’ll be celebrating at Dorie’s with her in-laws. It’s just not the same without other people in the house.”

  Jean nodded, handing Meg a Christmas mug filled with steaming coffee from the carafe on the table. “I know what you mean. If the kids weren’t coming, I’d probably feel the same way. Wonder why we don’t make the effort to do it for ourselves, but we scurry around to make it nice for someone else. Hasn’t that been the story of our lives?”

  “It’s true,” Meg agreed. “This can be a hard time of the year for some. Just imagine what Lena’s family’s going through. Planning a funeral amidst the holidays must be the worst.” Meg stirred her coffee after adding cream. She’d experienced making funeral arrangements during the holidays several times. The memory was why she liked the distraction of figuring out who killed Lena. “I’ve been a bit of a sleuth about this murder. The police questioned me like I might have had something to do with it.”

  “Oh, no, Meg. They couldn’t have ever thought that.” Jean’s spoon clinked as it fell to the table.

  “Well, I was the only one at Darrow so it makes sense. I imagine during their investigation they’ve developed other suspects, but I certainly felt vulnerable during the questioning.”

  “Isn’t the spouse always the first person of interest in these cases?” Jean said, pouring orange juice into champagne flutes at the buffet. “I would imagine Brian would be nervous about this whole thing.”

  “I don’t know how people are supposed to act when a tragedy like this strikes, but his attitude bothered me. I went over yesterday morning, and he and Wayne were seated on the sofa chatting like they were just killing time. There’s something not right about that group of people.” Meg raised her brow.

  “They’re a little creepy,” Jean said. “That’s why I hope you’ll be careful about doing too much snooping. You know they’re looking for Tom, right?”

  “Who’s looking for Tom?”

  “His staff. They’ve called here asking if I’ve heard from him. Early this morning, Jill Ann called to ask if I’d seen him in church. She knows I go to early mass, and he’s usually there, sitting in the same pew every Sunday. But he wasn’t there this morning.”

  “I thought he went to Wayne’s church?” Meg said, breaking open a cranberry muffin and slathering it with butter.

  “He goes to their social activities and sometimes their Wednesday evening gatherings, but he takes communion and mass with the Catholics.” Jean put a bowl of jam on the table. “I thought his involvement might have something to do with the foundation. You know, trying to get that ritzy congregation to participate in historic preservation?”

  “I guess that makes sense, but I always associated him with Hilltop. I noticed his car at Darrow House on my way to the market
this morning.” Meg bit into muffin, closed her eyes, and moaned.

  “Maybe he was taking care of some things after the tours. But if you saw his car, then why is Jill Ann calling me trying to locate him? She said he’d left his cell phone on his desk Friday evening, so there’s no hope of him returning a call.” Jean sipped orange juice before lowering her chin and cutting her eyes at Meg.

  Meg ran her fingers through her hair. “I guess I should call Jill Ann and let her know he might be at Darrow. It’s Sunday morning. Surely she won’t be at the foundation. I’ll send her an email.” Meg had only recently learned to do this from her phone. She back-spaced several times.

  “Sheesh. I’ll never get used to using a phone as a typewriter,” The phone was stuffed into her purse with a long sigh. “Something’s fishy about this. I went to the Dickens Feast last night with Dorie and Michael. Tom was a few tables away, and he motioned for me to go into the hall. When I did he wasn’t there. I looked for him and watched the table, but he never returned. Jill Ann caught me on the way out and said no one has seen him since.

  “And there’s something else that’s odd. My locket, the one with my father’s photo, had been missing since I moved. I found it in the back hall at Darrow House. When Jill Ann saw I had it on last night, she said it was exactly like one that had been on the desk in Tom’s office.”

  “That is strange, Meg. How did it get to Darrow House or to the foundation office?”

  “I have no idea. The only time I would’ve been there was in the spring and I can’t remember if I had it on. I usually only wear it with my Dickens costume.”

  Jean rolled her eyes and shook her finger in the air.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Meg said, holding the champagne flute in the air. “Here’s to the spirits sending me messages through objects they move around when I’m not looking.” They had a private joke about Jean’s belief in visitations by ghosts.

  Jean clinked Meg’s glass with her own. “I know you scoff, but there’s a possibility someone is trying to send you a message.”

  Draining the orange juice from the flute, Meg wiped her mouth with a napkin embroidered with a holly motif. She didn’t want to renew their debate about deceased relatives moving things to get her attention.

  “Oh, I spotted what I think is Lena’s car out at the Double Gates. Brian told me it was missing. I drove out there after I left his house, just on a hunch, and there it was, down one of those wide trails we used to walk. The detective investigating the case was at my house yesterday morning and I told her. I suppose someone’s checked on it by now.”

  “This is a real live murder mystery, right here in our town.” Jean’s expression and comments betrayed her intrigue. “I never believed that salacious gossip about Hilltop, but it sounds like there may be some truth to it. I always figured people were a little jealous or something. You know, all those people are so attractive and living so well.” Jean leaned back in her chair, her fingers laced together around the coffee mug.

  A shared sentiment for sure. Jean wasn’t the only one who was suspicious of Hilltop and for good reason. It helped to think out loud with Jean and see if her thoughts made sense. “Yeah, but it’s suspicious, isn’t it, in a too-good-to-be-true kind of way? Lena arrived in town about six years ago, and then Tom followed a few years later. She and Brian were an item, but I think she dated other people from that church before they married. Do you think the police are going to follow up on the gossip surrounding the church?”

  “Meg, who would bring this up? Do you think they’ve interviewed anyone who would mention it?” Jean sat forward in the chair, pushing her empty plate to the side.

  “I don’t know.” Meg picked up the coffee carafe and poured herself another mug, adding some to Jean’s when she pushed it closer. “It sounds like I might need to call Detective Crawford and set a time to talk. Sally and Rafe cornered me last night. They seemed to think I should be the one to say something.”

  “I’m a little jealous of this adventure. Would you indulge me and take a drive to show me where Lena’s car was?” Jean sat forward in her chair. “I haven’t been out to the Double Gates in years.”

  “Of course. I want to make another pass by some of these places, and I would welcome your company. Let’s get these dishes cleaned up first, and then we’ll head out.”

  While they cleaned up the kitchen Meg admitted she’d experienced a panic attack the previous evening.

  “You haven’t had one in such a long time, maybe years.” Jean slung the tea towel over her shoulder and stared at Meg, her hip against the counter. “I hope this murder and being an amateur sleuth aren’t causing a recurrence. Maybe we should go to a movie or something instead and get your mind off this.”

  “No, I think it was talking to Miranda and what she said about the young women. It reminded me of what happened, that’s all. I’m sure that was the trigger. This murder situation isn’t really that personal for me. These spells don’t scare me like they used to. I can brace myself until it passes.”

  Having Jean to share the experience with was comforting. There was also an easiness about being able to move around her friend’s kitchen as if it were her own. Meg closed the dishwasher and turned it on. “I don’t expect you to do anything about it, Jean. You’re the only person who knows I have them since Paul passed, and you’re the person who was there just after…you know.”

  “You never told Dorie?”

  “No, I don’t see any need to say anything to her,” Meg said, shrugging. “I’m fine, really. Tracking down clues occupies my mind. Besides, there’s nothing showing at the movies I want to see.” She suspected Jean was just trying to figure out a way they could share a tub of popcorn.

  “What shoes should I wear?” Jean asked with her hands on her hips.

  “We’re not going to get out of the car and gather evidence,” Meg laughed. “Just wear the ones you have on.”

  Meg barely accelerated down the gravel road toward the Double Gates. She pointed to the right at the clearing where she’d spotted Lena’s car, and there was nothing there. “It was right in … look you can see the tire ruts.” Someone must have followed up on her tip and moved the car. She pointed to the glove compartment. “The binoculars are in there. Get them and take a closer look.”

  “You still keep these in the car? Reminds me of Paul. He was never without them, was he?” Jean held the field glasses to her face, twisting the dial for focus. The window was part-way down, and traffic on the county road was barely audible, but Meg definitely heard a car slow and then accelerate. She tilted her head, looking in the rear-view mirror as Jean continued to stare into the woods. A car sat in the intersection at the turn-off to the Double Gates, but when she turned to look out the rear window, it sped away.

  “That looked like Tom’s car,” Meg said, easing the car to the far right of the road to do a U-turn, then driving to the intersection. They looked down the road in both directions, but there was no car to be seen.

  “Where could it have gone?” Jean said, rolling the window down more, straining to hear a vehicle.

  “There are several unpaved trails that way, back in those trees,” Meg said, pointing down the road. “I have no intention of following anyone there. This is a little spooky. Did you see the car?”

  “Just a glimpse, but it was red. I thought it looked like Tom’s. I don’t even know what kind of car he drives, but it’s definitely a red sports car. I didn’t see anything back in those trees where you said Lena’s car was, even with the binoculars.”

  “The police must have moved it,” Meg said, pulling onto the gravel road that would lead to the paved county road. She was anxious to get back to town. “Michael pays attention to cars. He’s always lusted after Tom’s—said it’s a Porsche. Apparently it’s expensive. I’ve heard of it, but I have no idea what the body or symbol looks like.”

  Meg convinced Jean they should drive by Darrow House to see if there was still a car there and then head to the
Hillards’ to pay their respects. She wanted to find out about the funeral arrangements. As Meg pulled onto the county road, a vehicle came up behind her, nudging them several times.

  Jean screamed, as Meg sped up to get away, her heart pounding, as she clutched the steering wheel with both hands, grateful to see approaching traffic near the city limits sign. She wasn’t sure if she’d screamed also. The startling noise could have come from her own throat, now parched and painful.

  “That was intentional!” Jean gasped. “That car had tattered paper plates.” She turned in the seat again, staring out the rear window. She was clawing at the console between them, craning her body to get a better view. “They turned off on Riggs Road,” Jean bleated. “My heart is beating out of my chest.” Jean held her hand to her throat and closed her eyes. “That’s not Tom’s car. He has real plates. Who does that?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m not going to stick around to find out.” Meg accelerated again, desperate to put more distance between them and the Double Gates. “Get my phone out, Jean and see if you can find Crawford on my contacts.”

  Jean fumbled with the phone. “This isn’t the same…damn it, Meg. I don’t have this kind of screen. I can’t tell.

  “Jean, take a breath. Look at the screen in the beginning and all those icons. There’s one that looks like people.”

  “My hand’s shaking. I can’t see it. That first screen isn’t even on here anymore. I’m sorry, I just can’t see it,” Jean put the phone on the console, her hand wobbling.

  Jean looked toward Meg and started giggling. “I have to admit, that was fun. My heart is still pounding. I’d forgotten how exciting the Double Gates could be.”

  Meg slumped against the seat, relaxing her grip on the wheel, not as entertained by the incident. She’d have to call Crawford when they got back to town.

  This isn’t a joke. There’s already been one murder, and someone clearly doesn’t want me involved. What’s going on here?