by Josie Belle
“Yes, her husband cleaned her out.”
Maggie felt the world tip a little bit on its axis. This was big news in the Motives to Kill Templeton department. She couldn’t help but think that this would certainly give Summer a reason to commit murder, especially if she had thought he was her ticket out of the poorhouse and he reneged.
“It was a nasty divorce,” Trudi said. “I heard her husband had photographic evidence of her and the lifeguard at the country club pool doing the breast stroke—but not in the pool, if you get my drift.”
“Trudi, I’m shocked!” Maggie teased through her laughter. Then she held up her hand for a high five. “Good one.”
Abruptly, the curtain to the dressing room was flung back, and Max stepped out.
For a second, Maggie didn’t recognize him. He looked taller and more mature. Then his hair flopped forward and the image was ruined.
“This is going to work,” Trudi said. She checked him over. “The pants need to be taken in, but the shoulders are a perfect fit. You know, they can do the tailoring at the dry cleaner next door.”
“Perfect,” Maggie said. “What do you think, Max?”
He studied himself in the mirror, turning this way and that. Maggie fished a hair band out of her purse and fastened his hair at the nape of his neck. It was the first time she’d ever clearly seen his face. Despite the acne, he had very handsome features. She also redid his tie, which looked more like a square knot than a Windsor knot.
“Not bad,” he said.
“Not bad?” Maggie asked. “You look great. You look like Maxwell Button, Esquire, now.”
“Thanks.” He flushed a bright red.
Maggie looked him over one more time. “Uh, except for the shoes.”
All three of them looked down at Max’s Converse sneakers.
“Go find a pair of shoes,” Maggie ordered. “On the rack over in the corner.”
“No sneakers?” he asked. “Really?”
“Really.”
He turned and headed toward the back with a put-upon sigh.
“Go for brown, and make sure they fit,” Maggie called after him.
“So, he’s really going to court tomorrow to represent Claire Freemont?” Trudi asked.
“Yes, unless the killer is caught in the next twenty-four hours.”
Trudi lowered her voice, and asked, “Do you think he can handle it?”
“I wouldn’t trust this case to anyone else, and neither would Claire,” Maggie said.
“Tell Claire I’m pulling for her,” Trudi said. “I never believed that she could have murdered Templeton. You know, when I was looking for ways to promote the shop, she gave me loads of books on marketing and introduced me to a small-business mentor.”
“She is an amazing librarian,” Maggie said. “St. Stanley would certainly feel her loss, but that’s not going to happen.”
Trudi gave Maggie’s arm a squeeze. She wasn’t sure if it was in reassurance or agreement, but she patted Trudi’s hand all the same.
Max found a pair of Cole Haan brown wingtips with just a small scuff on the heel. They added an inch to his height and, with his hair pulled back, he was barely recog-nizable.
Maggie paid for the ensemble. A Brooks Brothers suit and Cole Haan shoes for fifty dollars! Trudi said it was because she didn’t know anyone else as skinny as Max and she’d never unload the suit, but Maggie suspected this was her way of helping them help Claire.
Max wore the suit out of the shop. Maggie didn’t think it was her imagination that he seemed to be walking a tad taller than usual, and it wasn’t the shoes either.
“How are you feeling about tomorrow?” she asked.
“Scared to death,” he said, and he deflated like a helium balloon having its air sucked out.
“Would you care to try a little experiment?” she asked.
“I really have to get back,” he said.
Maggie consulted her watch. “I’ve only borrowed you for twenty minutes; I have ten left. Come on.”
She took him by the arm and led him across the town square to the Perk Up.
“Maggie, the last thing I need is coffee,” he said. “I’m already so amped on energy drinks that my heart will probably explode out of my chest.”
“Then we’ll get you a decaf,” she said.
She pulled open the door and pushed him inside ahead of her. The place had a few more people than usual but wasn’t exactly the picture of a bustling coffee shop.
She brought him up to the counter at the front and was a little disappointed to find Gwen there. Jay was infinitely friendlier, but no matter.
“Hi, Gwen,” she said. “May I have a decaf cup of coffee for my friend and a café latte for me?”
Gwen glanced at her over the counter. “For here or to go?”
“Here, please.”
“Do you want cream and sugar in the decaf, Mr.… ?” she asked.
Max looked behind him to see who she was talking to, and Maggie nudged him. “She means you.”
“Oh, yes please,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “Gwen, this is Maxwell. Maxwell, Gwen owns the Perk Up.”
“Nice to meet you,” Gwen said. “Are you new in town?”
“Me?” he asked. He looked incredulously at Maggie. Gwen didn’t recognize him. “Um, I, well, I’m just passing through.”
“Maxwell is an attorney. He is helping with Claire’s trial.”
“Seems to me they ought to throw the book at her,” Gwen said. She still didn’t recognize Max, and he and Maggie shared a wide-eyed glance while she turned away from them to fuss with their coffees.
“What makes you say that, Gwen?” Max asked. Maggie noticed he’d made his voice sound a bit deeper.
Gwen was scooping the steamed milk onto Maggie’s latte and didn’t look up.
“It’s not brain surgery,” she said. “The man was stabbed with her cake knife in her library with her book lying next to him. It seems reasonable to me that the killer has been caught. I don’t see why they need to go wasting taxpayer money investigating a case that is closed.”
Max frowned at her. “It does seem to be a done deal, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does,” Gwen said. She turned and put the two cups in front of them.
“Maggie,” Max’s voice cracked with emotion. “I have to get back to the books. I have to study up. I’m supposed to work tonight, and if I’m going to be able to give Claire my best, I have to get to it.”
“Relax, Max,” Maggie said.
“Max?” Gwen gasped, staring at him in his suit. “You’re the kid from the ice cream stand. Oh, my word, so it really is true? You’re defending Claire? Oh my God! She’s a dead woman walking.”
“Gwen!” Maggie snapped. “That was uncalled for.”
“Sorry, but how old are you kid? Twelve?” Gwen asked.
“Please put these in cups to go,” Maggie said. “I’ve changed my mind, we’re leaving.”
Gwen shrugged, and Maggie could see the ghost of a smile on her lips.
“Listen, Max, let’s leave the suit at the dry cleaners for tailoring, and then I’ll drop it off at the Frosty Freeze tonight when it’s ready,” she said.
Max looked worse than a deflated balloon now: He looked like he’d been popped, and Maggie had to resist the urge to leap over the counter and kick Gwen’s behind.
Gwen handed them paper cups with their coffee, and Maggie paid her.
“Sorry,” Gwen said. “I didn’t know he was so sensitive.”
“No, it’s my fault,” Maggie said. She had thought not being recognized would give Max a confidence boost, and it had. She just hadn’t expected it to backfire so severely.
They stopped at the dry cleaner where Mrs. Kellerman measured Max and agreed to have the suit ready by the end of the day.
They parted at the steps to his place, and Maggie asked, “Are you going to be all right?”
“Yeah, I’m good, really good.” Then he gave her a sma
ll smile, and said, “Well, at least I’ll look good tomorrow.”
Maggie gave him a hug, and said, “I’ll see you later. Go study, but don’t worry. You’re going to do just fine.”
Max looked like he desperately wanted to believe her, but just didn’t.
Chapter 32
Maggie left Max and walked over to the police station. She wanted to tell Claire what she had learned from Trudi, and she also thought it might do her some good to tell Sam about it, too. Surely, he couldn’t get mad at her for that. It’s not like she had asked Trudi to tell her about Summer’s impoverished situation.
Maggie arrived at the sheriff’s department to find that the crotchety older deputy, Deputy Crosthwaite, was the only one on duty.
“Hi, I’d like to see Claire Freemont, please.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?” Maggie said.
Deputy Crosthwaite glanced up from the newspaper he had spread over his desk. “You hard of hearing?” he asked. Then he shouted, “No! No one gets back there. Sheriff’s orders.”
“But I need to talk to her,” Maggie spluttered.
The spindly old man shrugged. Not his problem.
“How about Sheriff Collins?” she asked. “Is he avail-able?”
“Nope, he’s out,” he said.
It was times like this that Maggie really wished she were the sort of woman who could throw a hissy fit to get what she wanted. It just wasn’t in her DNA, however.
“Fine. Can I leave him a note?” she asked. “Will you be certain that he gets it? It’s very important.”
“Yeah, sure, very important,” the deputy muttered.
Maggie dug a pen and paper out of her purse. She had to write on the back of a 20-percent-off coupon from the car wash, which about killed her to give up, but she did it anyway.
She leaned against the desk and tapped the pen against her lips. What to write? That was the question. The simple fact was that she was now sure that Summer Phillips was the killer. Why? Well, she was a woman, so the overhand thrust of the knife fit. Templeton had broken up with her, so there was a crime of passion in the making: a woman scorned and all that. Then there was the location of the crime, something that had always bugged Maggie.
Why had the killer chosen the basement of the library? But then, she realized today, it was a perfect pick for Summer. Why? Because twenty-four years ago when Maggie had her heart cut out of her chest and served up on a platter, it was because Summer Phillips had lured Sam Collins into the basement of the library and seduced him, and Maggie had walked in on them. That had been the evil genius of Summer’s plan: She’d had one of Sam’s friends tell Maggie that Sam was down there waiting for her and Maggie had gone to find him like a lamb to the slaughter.
Add to the facts that Summer was broke and out to get revenge on both Templeton and the woman she believed he was leaving her for—which would be Claire—and Maggie now had no doubt that Summer had killed Templeton in the library basement. She used Claire’s cake knife, and then, probably to make the scene a perfect setup, she had tossed Claire’s copy of The House of Mirth in as well.
Maggie stared at the paper until she started to see spots. She didn’t know how to phrase it. She and Sam had never talked about her walking in on him and Summer. He had come to see her the next day, and she had refused to talk to him. He left for college the day after that, and she had only caught the occasional glimpse of him when he’d come back to visit his parents in St. Stanley. She wondered now if she should have let him explain what had happened.
She shook her head. It didn’t matter. It was the past. The only thing that mattered now was getting Claire out of jail and Summer in.
Finally, Maggie decided her best format would be clear, concise bullet points. Once she was done, she folded up the note and handed it to Deputy Crosthwaite.
He grumbled at her, but she saw him put it in what appeared to be the sheriff’s inbox. It would have to do.
Maggie lingered as long as she could, but finally she had to leave for home so she could grab her blue paisley coupon holder, Old Blue, and hit the grocery store. Today was triple coupons, and if she didn’t get a move on, all the good stuff would be gone.
As she drove home, her mind spun from the high possi-bility that Summer was Templeton’s killer to thinking about what it would be like to own her own resale shop. My Sister’s Closet had been an institution in St. Stanley since Trudi had moved here fifteen years ago. It would be such a shame to lose it.
She pictured Summer in the orange jumpsuit Claire had been forced to wear, and she smiled. Then she wondered how different medical billing could be from running a consignment shop.
No, no, she had to stop thinking about it. She liked working for Dr. Franklin, and she liked her life just as it was. Then why did the thought of unlocking the door to a place that was all her own hold so much appeal?
Maggie shook her head. Obviously, the strain of the past few days had wreaked havoc on her nerves. And she was probably having a midlife crisis. It was best just to let it go. Except she didn’t.
She had lunch with Sandy and Josh and then went grocery shopping. While standing in the frozen vegetable aisle, she got so lost in thought reconfiguring the shop in her mind—she’d always thought the shoes should be near the front of the store—that she completely forgot what she was doing until a not-very-subtle cough sounded behind her.
“Maggie, are you taking root there?”
Maggie turned to find Bill Parsons leaning on his cart staring at her in irritation.
“Oh, sorry, Bill,” she said. She moved to the side to give him access to the bagged broccoli. “Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask,” he said.
Bill was a St. Stanley son, born seventy years before in the county hospital; he had never left St. Stanley, not even for a vacation. He did not like to leave his zip code, as it made him edgy.
Although he was known for being as cantankerous as a rooster after sunrise, Maggie thought he might offer valuable insight into her dilemma. Or, more accurately, there was no one else present to ask.
“Do you think I’d be a good owner of the secondhand store My Sister’s Closet? You know the one…”
“Yeah, I know it,” he interrupted.
He picked out a bag of broccoli and another of spinach and plopped them in his cart. Then he turned and looked Maggie up and down.
“You’re not going to raise the prices, are you?”
“No.”
“You’re not going to sissify it with a lot of pink colors and girly stuff, are you?”
“No.”
“You aren’t stupid, are you?”
“No.”
“Well, then, it should be all right,” he said. He pushed his cart away, moving down the aisle in a “this conversation is over” move that Maggie had to admire.
She tossed the quickly defrosting bag of broccoli into her cart and made her way to the checkout. Maggie Gerber, a shop owner. She felt her insides buzzing with an excitement she didn’t think she could ignore.
The buzz lasted until she got to the parking lot of Santana’s grocery store to find Summer Phillips leaning on her Volvo.
Maggie did a quick check of her canvas tote bags. She could slam Summer with the bag of broccoli, but the pot roast probably would have a better impact—although she hated to waste a fine cut of meat that she’d gotten on sale.
“Nice parking job, Gerber.” Summer sneered as she pointed out that Maggie’s car was almost on the white line that designated the parking spot.
“Really?” Maggie asked. “You’re reduced to harassing me about my parking?”
She moved around Summer, opened the back of the Volvo and started loading her bags in. She glanced at Summer’s hands. She still had her nails done in a deep crimson, an appropriate color for a killer, and her hands were large, almost man hands. Certainly, they were capable of plunging a cake knife into a man’s chest.
“So, tomorrow is the hearing for the po
or little librarian,” Summer said. “I bet she gets put away for life.”
“That would certainly work out well for you, wouldn’t it?” Maggie asked. She slammed the back of her Volvo shut and glared at the bleached blonde in front of her.
Summer frowned at her. “What’s it got to do with me?”
“With the wrong person in jail, the police won’t arrest the real killer—you!” Maggie said.
Summer blinked at her. Then she tipped her head back and laughed. It was a raucous laugh that roared up from her belly and caused other people in the parking lot to turn and stare at them.
“You kill me, Gerber,” Summer said. She carefully wiped away the moisture from her eyes, so as not to smear her thick black eyeliner. “Why on earth would I have killed John Templeton?”
“Because you’re broke,” Maggie said.
Summer’s eyes widened, and Maggie continued. “Oh yeah, I know you’re busted, and John Templeton was slated for—what are you on now, husband number five or six? I’ve lost count.”
“So what if I was seeing Templeton?” Summer asked. “Your theory is stupid. Not a surprise, because why would I kill off the man I’m planning to have bankroll me? That’s just dumb.”
“I don’t know,” Maggie said. “Maybe he rejected you. Maybe he’s just not that into fake boobs and big hair, and you snapped and killed him.”
Summer’s nostrils flared. “The girls are not fake.”
“Oh puleeze,” Maggie said. “You can’t defy gravity at forty unless you have an assist.”
“Maybe you can’t,” Summer snapped back with a pointed look at Maggie’s chest.
“So, did you know that he used to know Claire?” she asked. “Is that why you chose the library? Or did you just have fond memories of the basement and thought you’d like to revisit it with a lover?”
“You’re mental,” Summer said.
“So, what happened? Did you get down there and he refused you, so you grabbed Claire’s knife and got him in the chest? Nice touch leaving Claire’s book by his side. Really, I didn’t think you had the brains to pull off such a frame up. But, of course, you didn’t, because you’re about to get caught.”