by Mary Maxwell
“No! Oh, heavens no! I was just thinking about what you told the 911 dispatcher and what the first responders found.”
He took another step. “I’m no liar, okay? And I’m not responsible for whatever cockamamie nonsense happened here today. It’s like I told the cops a million times already. I came home from the Civic Center. I saw the door flapping. I went inside and when I saw the blood and the knife, I dialed 911. End of story.”
“You saw a knife in the kitchen?”
His eyes narrowed. “No,” he said, blinking furiously and clenching his jaw. “I didn’t say anything about a knife.” He stopped and raised the bottle to his lips. “Maybe your ears aren’t working so good this time of night.”
I shrugged. “Anything’s possible. It has been a long day.”
He yawned slightly. “You know something? I think it’s time for me to head for home. They said I was free to go, but I was sticking around out of respect for Walter.”
“Sure thing, Abe. Will we see you at the book fair tomorrow?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know yet. Why do you ask?”
“I heard you telling Amanda Crane that you were there today working as a volunteer. I just thought maybe you’d want to enjoy the actual event itself.”
He sneered. “Yeah, I did help out some. And ain’t that a hoot? The last book I read was TV Guide.”
I smiled at the quip. “Have you volunteered for the fair before?”
Abe shook his head. “Nah, I’m usually too busy with work. My lady friend twisted my arm this year though. Got me to help Ivy’s husband set up about ten million folding chairs in the main auditorium down there. Took us all afternoon and into the evening to get ’em arranged to satisfy Ivy’s persnickety demands.”
“Lady friend, huh?”
He smiled suggestively. “Yeah, Sonya sees volunteering for things like the book fair to be part of our civic duty.”
“How about you, Abe?”
“Me?” He sneered and chuckled. “Driving no more than five over the speed limit’s enough civic duty for me. And you wanna know why? I’ll tell you why!”
I didn’t really need to hear more, but he was off on a rant that ricocheted from one complaint about life in Crescent Creek to the next.
“And the parking meters!” he raged at one point. “Why don’t they take pennies? Don’t you think they should take pennies? I mean, what the heck are we gonna do with pennies anyway?”
As he covered an immeasurably wide range of gripes, I did my best to keep my eyes from glazing over. When he finally stopped to catch his breath, Amanda Crane approached cautiously.
“I hate to interrupt, folks,” she said. “But Trent asked me to tell you both that he’ll be in touch tomorrow. They found some more evidence inside and he needs to focus on that right now.”
“Okay then,” Abe said as Amanda stepped away. “Thanks for listening, Kate. I feel a whole lot better now.”
After he walked away toward his house and I headed for my car, one thought kept bouncing around in my mind: Enjoy it while you can, Mr. Waterhouse. Something tells me you might not feel so good after I share your little slipup with the Crescent Creek PD.
CHAPTER 16
While Abe’s rant echoed in my ears, I climbed into the car and pulled out my phone to make a couple of quick calls. I dialed Ivy Minkler’s number first, expecting to have a few seconds to gather my thoughts, but she answered immediately with a comic outburst instead of a more traditional greeting.
“Where’s that high octane fuel, missy? If we’re going to be up all night, we need something to—”
“Ivy?”
She didn’t say anything.
“It’s Kate Reed.”
“Oh, my goodness!” Her giggle was light and fluffy, the sound of someone running on too much nervous energy and not enough sleep. “I thought you were Liza! She went over to QuikStop for more coffee.”
“Sounds like you’re burning the midnight oil to get ready for tomorrow.”
Ivy yawned. “Yes, we’ve been going since six this morning. We ran into a snag with the balloons for the arched entry, but I think another hour or two should do it.”
“Well, I’m sorry to call so late, but I have a couple of questions for you.”
“Perfect! It’ll give me an excuse to get off my feet for a few minutes.” I heard the sound of chair legs scraping on the floor. “Oh, it feels so good to sit down.” She sighed gleefully. “Okay then, Katie. What did you want to ask?”
“Actually,” I said. “It relates to book fair volunteers.”
“Okay, what would you like to know?”
“What time did Abe Waterhouse leave there this afternoon?”
The line went quiet. I could hear paper crackling and crunching in the background. Then a few very faint muttered words. And then Ivy, sighing and apologizing in a strained tone.
“I’m about a half minute away from losing all my marbles,” she spluttered. “I must’ve grabbed the wrong clipboard when I left the library earlier.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Any chance you have a vague idea what time he finished up today?”
“Did you say Abe Waterhouse? The sad sack plumber that Sonya’s got her hooks in?”
“Well, I don’t know about all that,” I said. “But he is a plumber.”
Ivy chortled loudly. “She’s got the poor sucker wrapped around both of her little fingers.” The laughter returned, careening from a throaty roar into a soft snicker. “But, anyway…” Her voice trailed off and it sounded like was flipping through the pages on her clipboard again. “Okay, wonderful! I just found the volunteer schedule, Kate. It was tucked way in the back of all this mess!”
“Do you see Abe Waterhouse?” I asked, trying to keep her on track. “Any chance it shows how late he and Sonya stayed this afternoon?”
“Well, they didn’t help out today,” she said. “I’m looking at the sheet right here. No Abe Waterhouse. And no Sonya Lipton. But I do know for certain that they were both here last Saturday afternoon. They worked for about four hours helping to assemble registration packets.”
“They didn’t volunteer today?”
“No,” Ivy answered. “The only volunteers today were Blanche Speltzer, Nadine Runyan and Liza Moore.”
“Any chance Abe and Sonya might’ve stopped by briefly when you were gone?”
Ivy laughed. “Not with Liza on duty. She’s in charge of volunteers for the fair. It’s usually like pulling teeth to get people to help out. If someone came by unannounced to put in extra time, I would’ve heard about that from Liza.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“And I also definitely remember that Abe and Sonya only signed up for one shift,” Ivy added. “When I pressed the matter and tried to see if they could do another, Sonya made some snide remark about having better things to do than shuffle papers and set up folding chairs.”
“That sounds like Sonya.”
“You got that right,” Ivy said. “Sonya Lipton is one part angel and one part demon. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s behind whatever’s going on with Walter Shipp.”
“Time will tell,” I said. “Deputy Chief Walsh and his team are on it, so I imagine we’ll know more very soon.”
Another burst of derisive laughter came over the line. “Well, I hope they’re looking at Sonya and Abe,” said Ivy. “If they lied about being here today, there’s no way to know what other fibs they’re telling.”
I didn’t want to engage Ivy in a lengthy conversation that involved Sonya. It was common knowledge around town that the two women were far from friends.
“Hey, I should let you go,” I said. “Thanks again for your help.”
“Was that helpful?”
“Very much so,” I said. “And thanks for letting me interrupt your eleventh-hour preparations for the big day. Good luck, tomorrow!”
“Thanks, Kate. I’ll see you in the Sky High booth at some point.”
After finishing with Ivy, I gave Trent a q
uick call.
“What’s up?” He sounded rushed for time. “I’m heading back to the station in a sec.”
“Did you find a knife in Walter’s kitchen?”
“Well, yeah. It’s a kitchen, Kate. He’s got butter knives and steak knives and—”
“Don’t be a doofus, Trent. You know what I mean.”
He muttered under his breath. “Of course, Kate. Just trying to get your goat. And to answer your question—we didn’t find a knife or any other type of weapon to explain the trail of blood drops.”
“That’s interesting,” I said. “I figured you would’ve mentioned it, but I wanted to double check.”
“Why?” he asked. “I can tell this is going somewhere.”
I ran quickly through the events of the last half hour, trying to decide the most expeditious way to tell him about Abe Waterhouse’s odd remark.
“Hey!” Trent barked. “I don’t have all night. Why’d you ask if we found a knife?”
“Because I think there’s a chance someone removed it from the scene before your guys arrived,” I explained. “I was talking to Abe Waterhouse a few minutes ago. He was giving me the rundown about finding the screen door open and going inside to check on Walter.”
“Uh-huh. Clock is ticking, Katie. Can we fast-forward at all?”
“Abe said he noticed a knife on the kitchen floor,” I said. “Along with the blood drops.”
Trent didn’t say anything, but I knew he was sifting the information in his mind.
“Abe was also pretty anxious,” I added. “He got testy when I asked him a few questions regarding his whereabouts. He claimed that he was setting up chairs today for the book fair during the time that Walter went missing. But when I called Ivy Minkler just now, she said that wasn’t true.”
Trent chuckled. “Why am I not surprised, Katie? As usual, you morph from Little Miss Bakeshop into Little Miss Marple whenever there’s a whiff of something criminal in the air.”
“Just trying to be a good citizen, Chief Deputy Walsh!”
Trent sighed. “What else?”
“Excuse me?”
“What other clues do you have for me?”
I told him that I had a question about the timeline.
“What’s that?”
“When did Abe Waterhouse call 911?”
“Uh, let me check my notes,” Trent said. “I want to be…” He went silent for a moment. “It was at five past seven.”
“There you go,” I said. “Another clue.”
“What’s another clue?”
“The dispatcher logged the call at five after seven,” I said. “But I heard Amanda tell another officer that Velma Short saw Abe entering Walter’s house at six-thirty.”
“You talked to her?”
“I didn’t ask Amanda about it,” I answered. “But I did talk to Abe, and what he told me also contradicts the 911 timeline.”
Trent sighed. “That’s good work, Katie. On behalf of the Crescent Creek PD and Walter Shipp, I’d like to thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“You’re welcome, hot shot.”
He asked if I had any other aces up my sleeve.
“That’s it for tonight,” I said. “But I’ll definitely call if I hear anything else that I think might be of interest.”
CHAPTER 17
The front porch lights at Sky High Pies glowed warmly when I pulled into the driveway at ten o’clock. After the long day at work, the emotional high of dinner with Zack and the distressing scene at Walter Shipp’s place, it was good to be home.
I drove around the house, parked in back and shut off the engine. I was ready for a hot bath, a cup of cocoa and a few minutes with the new Food & Wine.
“Or maybe I could just sleep here,” I muttered, leaning on the headrest and closing my eyes. “I could set the alarm on my phone and be ready to go at four-thirty.”
I considered the idea for a brief moment. Then I giggled at the ridiculous thought, climbed out from behind the wheel and headed for the house. I was almost to the steps when someone called my name from the shadows.
“Who there’s?” I said, feeling my heart stagger into my throat.
I scanned the murky gloom along the back of the Victorian, quickly identifying the jet-black silhouette of a hooded figure against the clapboard siding. They sat huddled at the bottom of the steps leading up to my apartment on the second floor.
“I have a gun.” I slid my hand into my purse. “Identify yourself or—”
The dark silhouette stood and walked toward the light above the backdoor.
“It’s just me,” a man declared. “I’m sorry if I frightened you, Kate.”
It was Nigel Summerfield. He appeared distraught and tousled beneath the hood; his hair was messy, his face was pinched and his mouth was set in a grief-stricken frown.
“What are you doing here so late, Mr. Summerfield?”
“Nigel,” he said.
“Okay, Nigel.” I pulled my fingers from the Glock in my purse. “Why are you lurking around at this hour?”
He lifted his phone and tapped the screen. The glow from the display cast an eerie shadow on the back of the Victorian.
“I had no idea it was this late,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you since…” He shook his head and stammered. “Well, I don’t even know what time I got here, but it’s been a while.”
I walked slowly toward him. “If you needed something, why didn’t you just call me?”
“I tried to, but you didn’t answer.” His voice hummed with worry. “I really don’t know anyone here, Kate. You seemed genuinely nice when we met. And when I heard one of the book fair volunteers mention that you used to work as a private investigator…” He stopped again, clamping a hand on the back of his neck and staring at his phone. “I’ve been trying to call her all night,” he continued. “And I went by the place where she’s staying, but they said she hasn’t been back to her room since late this morning.” He slowly removed the hood and stared at me with pleading eyes. “I can’t find her anywhere, Kate. The police claim there’s nothing they can do for twenty-four hours, so I thought maybe—”
“Are you talking about your sister?” I asked. “Or someone else?”
He nodded. “My sister. We were supposed to meet for dinner at seven, but Annabeth didn’t turn up at the restaurant. And the woman at the hotel…”
“Connie Larson?” I asked. “At the Crescent Creek Lodge?”
He blinked a few times. “How did you know that?”
I shrugged. “It’s a small town,” I said. “Have you tried tracking your sister’s phone?
“Tried what?”
“What kind of phone does she have?”
He shook his head. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“If you know her number and password, you may be able to use an app to locate her phone. That’s something you can do without waiting for the police.”
“I don’t know her password,” he said. “I mean, I can try and guess it, but that—”
“I’ll tell you what, Nigel. It’s late. And I’ve had a long, stressful day. A local man was kidnapped and I—”
He held up one hand. “Was it Walter Shipp?”
The question left me momentarily speechless.
“Well?” Nigel said anxiously. “Is that who’s gone missing?”
I felt an uncanny rush of satisfaction and disbelief and dread. All of the disparate elements from the past two days—Ivy’s discovery at the library, multiple sightings of a girl with dark makeup and the apparent abduction of Walter Shipp—were suddenly converging in my late-night conversation with Nigel Summerfield.
“Well?” he demanded. “Is that who you’re talking about?”
“Yes,” I said finally. “Do you know Mr. Shipp?”
“That’s a long story,” he answered. “But he’s the real reason my sister and I came to Crescent Creek.”
“The real reason?” I said warily. “Does that mean the book fair
was a ruse?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. I really do have a new book to promote, but there’s something else that we—”
“Is this related to the letter?” I paused to let the question register. “The anonymous threat sent to Walter Shipp?”
The expression on his face jolted. “You know about that?”
“Yes,” I said. “But I wasn’t certain until just now that you were involved.”
“Yeah, but who…” He furrowed his brow, squinting slightly. “How’d you find out?”
As we stood in the lamplight, a sudden gust of icy wind swept in from the north.
“Okay, listen,” I said. “Why don’t we go inside and talk for a few minutes? Maybe that will help you calm down enough so you can go back to the motel.” I paused and he nodded silently. “I’ll fix us a cup of tea, and you can tell me the truth about whatever is going on with you and your sister.”
CHAPTER 18
Nigel wrapped both hands around the steaming mug of honey lavender tea and thanked me again for taking time to talk. We were sitting on stools in the Sky High kitchen, a plate of Peanut Butter Brownie Bites between us and an uneasy tension in the air.
“I can’t stay up all night,” I said. “But why don’t you give me the highlights of your story?”
He lifted the mug, took a small sip and asked me if I had any siblings.
“I’ve got a brother and sister,” I answered.
“Do you love them?” he asked. “Your sister and brother?”
“More than anything in the world.”
“As do I,” he said somberly. “Annabeth and I have an incredibly strong bond. Our mother died when we were both in our teens, and our father…” His voice trembled slightly. “…our father was murdered about six years ago,” he continued. “During a hiking trip to a place called Whetstone Gulf in Upstate New York. He’d gone on a retreat with a man that neither my sister nor I had ever met. The whole thing seemed really peculiar; father was very mysterious about the trip. He told us that he’d explain everything when he got back to the city.” He stopped again, swallowing hard to keep his voice from breaking. “As he left that morning, father said, ‘The most important thing you can do for me is take care of your sister. No matter what fate brings, take care of Annabeth.’”