by J. R. Ripley
“Someone hated Ava enough to want to stab her to death,” I said.
“What are you talking about? It was Patsy that got killed.”
I explained how it was clear that Patsy had not been the intended victim. “She was in Miss Turner’s dressing room. Sitting in Miss Turner’s chair.”
“So somebody stabbed the wrong woman,” Eli voiced my conclusion. He nodded, then stopped. “Wait just a minute. Are you trying to imply that I killed her?” He jabbed his chest with the bottle. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“No.” I took a step back. A bulky, oak block on the counter was loaded with black-handled knives.
Eli caught me looking at them. “Because it was a knife? That’s it, isn’t it? You think because Patsy was killed with a knife that I did it?”
“No, no, no.” My head swung side to side. “You’ve got me all wrong. I know you wouldn’t hurt a fly.” He might stuff one and mount it on a plastic flyswatter though. “Besides”—I smiled as if to say, We’re all friends here—“you weren’t anywhere near Miss Turner’s dressing room, right?”
Eli hesitated before replying, as if fearing a trick. “Yeah, so?”
“So you couldn’t have killed her.” Careful to control my voice, I asked, “Do you remember where you were at the time of the murder?”
“Enough bull.” Eli settled his half-empty bottle of beer on the kitchen counter and swaggered toward me. “What do you say we get to rehearsing those love scenes of ours?” His voice came out a throaty, wolfish growl.
I tried to take another step backward, but there was nowhere to go. My spine banged against the kitchen wall and I bit my tongue, tasted blood. “Sorry, but I really have to get back to work. They’re expecting me.”
“Too bad,” Eli replied. “I have a feeling we could really light things up.” His arm rested on the wall above my shoulder.
I dipped and rolled free. I had no intention of lighting things up with Mr. Hands and every intention of shutting things down with him.
“Before I go,” I began, pulling the papers from my purse, “I was wondering if you might be interested in helping out a good cause?” I handed him a flyer and brochure.
Eli’s jaw worked from side to side as he read. “Sounds good,” he said finally. “How much do you need?”
I shrugged. “Whatever you feel comfortable giving. Birdseed is very inexpensive. Even twenty dollars would make a big difference.”
Eli reached into his back pocket and brought out a black leather wallet. “What if I give you a hundred bucks as a starter? How many bird feeders do you think that would buy?”
“A hundred dollars?” I said with surprise. I thought quickly. “Four or five. No, wait,” I amended. “At least half a dozen. I can get them wholesale.”
The taxidermist handed me a hundred-dollar bill. “There you go. Is there any way I can get a plaque put on them?”
“A plaque?”
“Yeah,” Eli explained. “A small metal one with my company’s name on it.” He wrote in the air with his index finger. “Donated by E. Wallace, Preservation Specialist.” He winked at me. “What do you think?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Great.” He rubbed his big, calloused hands together. “I’ll get a few made up at the engravers and drop them by your place.”
“I hate to see you go to any trouble. I’ll handle it for you.” I didn’t need Eli showing up at my doorstep. He walked me to the side door and followed me out to my van. I hurried inside, seeking the safety of my vehicle. I twisted the key in the ignition. I couldn’t get away fast enough. Eli rapped a knuckle against the glass and motioned for me to open the window.
I lowered it halfway. “Yes?”
The taxidermist looked up and down the quiet street. “If somebody wants the great lady dead, there’s not a thing you can do about it. In fact,” he said, kicking the van’s front tire, “half the cast and probably all the crew would love to see her go. I don’t care what Lou or August Mantooth say about how she’s good for the show and the town.” He spat on the grass. “In my book, Ava Turner isn’t worth spit.”
“Anybody else?”
“Anybody else what?” His eyes pulled together like they were being held in a vise.
“Anybody else feel that strongly about Miss Turner?” I could feel my heart pounding against my chest.
“Like I told you, nearly everybody.” A smile played over his face. “Maybe Longfellow, most of all.”
“Nathan Longfellow?” He was the big fellow playing Chief Sitting Bull. “Why would he have any particular animosity toward Ava Turner?”
“You don’t know?”
I shrugged to make it clear I didn’t.
“Nathan used to be a theater critic for one of those big Chicago newspapers. He wrote a rather unflattering review of one of Her Majesty’s films or something, and she got him fired.”
“Really?”
Eli nodded. “Folks say he’s been bumming around from town to town ever since.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“Nathan’s a butcher down at the Lakeside Market.”
That was quite a fall from having once been a theater critic for a major newspaper. It wouldn’t be the first time a man had killed in revenge.
“Did you know that Patsy and Nathan were once an item?”
“Everybody was an item to Patsy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The taxidermist grinned. “It means Patsy cared about people the way I care about animals.”
That was a disturbing thought. I muttered good-bye and drove off with my head filled with more new questions than it had answers.
If Eli was telling the truth.
He might be throwing Nathan under the bus to divert suspicion from himself. I was dubious about a lot of what the taxidermist had had to say about himself, Patsy Klein, and everybody else involved in the show.
I wondered if Mom was in the mood for steak, because a trip to the supermarket was in order.
17
I was having a hard time concentrating on the road. There were an awful lot of persons in Ruby Lake working with knives. I remembered seeing a big one in a sheath attached to T-Bone Crawford’s waist, too.
Under normal circumstances, that wouldn’t mean much around these parts. But these weren’t normal circumstances. I wondered if the police had identified the knife in the dressing room as the weapon that had been used to kill Patsy Klein yet. If so, had they found any prints that would identify the killer? And why had the knife shown up now?
There was one more nagging question remaining: Why had Patsy Klein fired the prop gun? Had she forgotten that it was a toy in her fear and confusion when she confronted her attacker?
Maybe she’d fired the weapon to draw help. After all, it was the gunshot that had brought us all running.
The next thing I knew, I was at TOTS. Rehearsal went by in a blur. I didn’t know if it was my imagination or not, but it seemed that a lot of the cast and crew were giving me the cold shoulder. Even August seemed a bit annoyed with me. Of course, that might have been due to hearing me sing for the very first time.
Only Ben Harlan, Eli Wallace, and Lou Ferris appeared cordial. I’d hoped for a moment alone with Ben. I was curious to learn if he’d picked up any news on the killing through the grapevine. I was even more curious to see if I could pry anything out of him about him and my mother. Unfortunately, the moment had never been right.
I spent my night stumbling over my lines, fending off ugly looks, and fearing a knife in the back from Derek’s ex, Amy, at any moment.
Back home, I fired up my laptop on the sofa and searched on Nathan Longfellow’s name. Sure enough, the man had been a popular theater critic in Chicago. He had been fired due to some controversy involving Ava Turner. It seemed things had gotten ugly and very public. Nathan had made some unflattering and unprofessional remarks that had cost him his job.
And now he was selling packaged meat
by the pound.
My cell phone rang and I grabbed it quickly, knowing Mom was asleep in the next room. “Hello?”
“Hi, this is Tiffany LaChance.”
“Hi, Tiffany. Everything okay?”
“I hope it’s not too late. I mean, me calling you like this. But I saw your light on.”
“Yeah, not too late at all. What’s up? Wait.” I rose. “You’re here?” I peeked out the curtains.
“At the front door.”
“I’ll come down and let you in.”
I squeezed my tired feet into a pair of slip-ons and headed downstairs, flicking on store lights as I went. The creaky, old house still spooked me, and I preferred to see where I was going, where the ghosts were or were not hiding, and all lurking and poised to attack killers.
I thumbed the lock. “Hi, Tiff. Come on inside.” I glanced up and down the street. Things were quiet now, after nine. Though a handful of cars sat in the diner parking lot across the street.
“Are you sure you don’t mind? I just got off shift.” She wiped her feet on the mat and ran her hands down her nearly spotless uniform. I didn’t know how she managed that trick, hustling coffee, gravy-soaked dinners, and everything else on the menu around the busy diner for hours on end.
On the second-floor landing, Esther’s door opened with a nuthatch-like squeak. “A little late for people to be visiting, isn’t it?” She was swaddled in her old heron-blue robe and gave us a curious look.
“Sorry,” Tiffany said rather demurely.
I was sure I smelled cigarettes and cat but was in no mood for an argument. “Good night, Esther.”
Tiffany wiggled her fingers good-bye to Esther.
“Please,” I said, “don’t encourage her.” Sometimes I wondered if the old pest they were singing about in “Master of the House” from Les Mis was my tenant.
We settled into the living room. I offered Tiffany something to drink, but she declined.
Tiffany kicked off her shoes and folded her legs up under herself on the sofa. “Jimmy was with Robert today and—” She must have noticed me roll my eyes because she changed gears. “Hey, believe me. I know what he’s like. You’re lucky you’ve never been married.”
“I don’t know how lucky I am,” I replied. “And I know my mother would take issue with that statement. I did come close once. And I’m glad close is as real as it got.” Even today the thought that I might have married Craig Bigelow scared me. I’d think twice, three times, before I ever let myself get that close to a man again.
Tiffany edged forward. “What happened?”
“You really want to hear this?”
The waitress smiled. “I have time. I’ve got the babysitter booked until eleven, but Moire let me off early.”
“Then we’re going to need to grease the wheels.” I rose. When I returned from the kitchen, I was carrying two glasses and an open bottle of Chablis. “Craig Bigelow was his name,” I began. Even now, it hurt to say his name. “He was an MBA student and I was an English major.”
“How did the two of you meet?”
My mind went back to those early college days, filled with good memories and bad. “I started working part-time at a local bird supply store to help cover college expenses.” We drank.
“And Craig was into bird feeding?”
I chuckled and tipped the bottle. “No. Craig was into the waitress working at the pizza shop two doors down in the strip mall the shop was located in.”
I dug in the freezer and pulled out two pints of chocolate mint ice cream. I grabbed two spoons from the drawer and pushed one down in each container. “When wine won’t quite cut it, only ice cream will do.”
Tiffany looked unconvinced. She twisted the spoon around the carton and took a bite. “It’s good.” I noticed she rested the carton atop a bird-watching magazine on the coffee table. Sure, you couldn’t keep a figure like Tiff’s if you downed gallons of ice cream and liters of wine.
I spooned a big glob and swallowed it whole. She might be watching her weight, but I was more concerned with my mental health. While they were perhaps not technically AMA approved, I knew from experience that ice cream and wine cured just about anything.
“Don’t keep me hanging, Amy. How did you meet Craig?”
“Sorry. Craig was into the waitress. I was into the pizza. I’d see him there now and again. Eventually, we started talking. The next thing I knew, we were dating.”
Tiffany nodded thoughtfully. “And then he broke your heart?”
“Not at first,” I admitted, grudgingly. “Little by little, over the course of six years, on-and-off-again engagements.” A yawn exploded out of nowhere. “And don’t get me started on the cheating.”
I jammed my spoon into the melting pool of ice cream and came up with a fist-sized blob. It was too big for my mouth so I worked around the edges, mindful of spilling on my clothes and/or the chair.
“Did you love him?” Tiffany asked between sips.
“Not as much as he loved himself. And you know what the worst part is?”
Tiffany’s eyes grew wide. “What?”
“The new owner of the place next door—”
“Paul,” she said.
My brow went up. “You know him?”
“He comes in the diner now and again.” She ran a finger along the edge of her glass. “He’s cute, don’t you think?”
“I suppose.” I did not want to go there. Besides, if she was interested in the man, who was I to splash cold water on the idea? “Anyway, it seems he’s partners with my ex.”
“You’re kidding!”
I shook my head. “Nope. That’s how he learned about Ruby Lake. I guess he liked what he heard so much that he decided to open a business here.”
“Paul did mention a partner.” Her brow formed a V. “I thought he said something about him being a silent partner though.”
Silent? I drained my glass. “Maybe he’s only coming to help Anderson get the business up and running. With a little luck, he’ll hightail it back to Raleigh when he’s finished.” I reached for the bottle. It was empty. A little luck seemed to be all the luck I was having lately.
The corners of Tiffany’s full lips dipped down. “He sounds a lot like Robert.”
We nodded, kindred souls, birds of a feather.
“Speaking of Robert,” Tiffany said, sliding down the sofa nearer to me. “Like I said, Robert had Jimmy most of the day.”
I nodded and forced myself to set down my own carton of ice cream. If Tiffany could show some restraint, so could I. Jimmy was Tiffany and Robert’s eleven-year-old son. Their only child.
“Jimmy said his dad was in a particularly good mood. He was bragging about some new restaurant he’s planning to open, if everything goes according to plan.”
“Bella Bologna!” I exclaimed, pulling the name out of my memory banks. Bella Bologna was one of those popular upscale Italian restaurant chains that cost a million bucks or more to franchise.
“You knew?”
“I saw the brochure one time when I was in his office.” I’d needed a car rental desperately. Under any other circumstances short of desperation, I wouldn’t go near the man or his business. “Say,” I said with a little smile, “do you suppose he’ll move to Raleigh if the deal goes through?”
Tiffany wrinkled her nose. “Raleigh? Why would Robert move to Raleigh?” She rose and returned both ice cream cartons to the freezer. I guess she was saving me from myself.
“To run the restaurant,” I said. I mean, wasn’t it obvious?
Tiffany stood over me. “Robert’s not planning on opening a franchise in Raleigh.”
“He’s not?” Had I had too much to drink? It was only two glasses of wine. Why wasn’t Tiffany making any sense?
“No, Amy. He and his partners are planning to open a Bella Bologna right here in Ruby Lake.”
“Oh,” I said. “Interesting.” Not what I expected, but still, it was none of my business.
“You don’t understand.”
Tiffany grabbed my hand. “Right here in Ruby Lake.”
“Yeah, I get it. Right here in Ruby Lake.” Maybe Tiffany had had too much to drink. At the very least, she didn’t seem to be able to hold her drink. I might have to call a cab for her ride home, short though it was. Tiffany and Jimmy lived in a condo complex down by the lake.
Tiffany sat so close our knees touched. “Right here.” She nodded to the floor. “At this corner.”
“At this corner?” My brow furrowed. “But the only place that makes any sense at all . . . I mean, there’s no room here for a place that size.” The diner was across the street on Lake Shore Drive. There was no way Moire Leora would sell. A relatively new complex of shops and offices sat on this side of Lake Shore Drive and Serviceberry Road. That couldn’t possibly be for sale. Serviceberry dead-ended at Lake Shore Drive and the Ruby Diner. To the west of the diner, separated by a paved walk leading to the lake, there was a strip of tourist-oriented stores and a small U.S. Post Office branch. That wouldn’t be going anyplace. “You need parking and—”
“And he wants to tear down Birds and Bees and—”
“Turn it into a parking lot,” I finished for her, my anger rising.
“Something like that. From what Jimmy told me, they plan on erecting the restaurant on the next street and using the land by Main Street for parking.” She shook her head. “Or maybe it was the other way around.”
“That land is privately held,” I argued. “There are houses on all those lots.” There were several older, small detached bungalows one street back, butting up against the back of my property.
“Guess who owns them?”
I cocked my head. “Who?” I voiced, glumly. “Your ex?”
“Gertrude Hammer.”
“Gertie!” I leapt from the chair.
“Sorry,” said Tiffany. “I thought you’d want to know.”
I fanned myself. The room was spinning like a carousel. I felt woozy.
So that was what was behind this whole eminent domain business and Gertie Hammer’s attempts to buy back my house. She, Robert, the mayor, and who knew who else, were planning to redevelop this whole corner.