by Carolyn Hart
Mrs. Talley stared at the hollow bust of Homer. “I hated doing it. But I didn’t have any choice. Daryl held the mortgage on the house and he’d given me a break on payments while I’m getting the Green Door up and running.” She swung toward me, her face haggard.
“We’re doing real well. I can make a go of it. I have to since Johnny died and there isn’t any money and I have to be home during the day with my mom—oh, you don’t care about all that. But you see my position. Daryl insisted I fire her, said he’d call all the payments due immediately if I didn’t.” She looked at me with shamed, sad eyes. “I told her I had to cut back on staff, but she knew that wasn’t it. She’d seen Daryl leave my office and I guess she figured it out. She said, ‘Mr. Murdoch made you, didn’t he?’ ” Mrs. Talley’s eyes glistened with tears. “She came up and hugged me and told me it was all right, I mustn’t worry. Don’t you see? She’s a good girl.”
———
Blue Sky Apartments was a fancy name for a seedy former motel. Units ran lengthwise behind the office with two shorter sections on either side. I found Lily’s apartment, number seventeen, by walking from door to door, checking the nameplates. An old Dodge with one flat tire listed in the drive on one side of the building. Through thin walls, a television blared. On the other side, a rocking horse and playpen sat next to two motorcycles. A baby’s cry rose. Lily’s front curtain was drawn, but light seeped around the edges.
I knocked.
Through the thin door, I heard running steps. The door was flung open. For an instant her heart-shaped face was open and eager, dark eyes luminous. “Kir—”
I understood why Kirby Murdoch cared. She was lovely, darkhaired, slim, vibrant, but more than that, she had an aura of kindness as warming as a blazing fire on a snowy night.
“Miss Mendoza, I need to speak with you about the murder”—I let the word hang in the cold night air—“of Mr. Daryl Murdoch.”
Her face was abruptly still and shuttered. “I don’t know anything about it.”
I forced myself to be brusque. “May I come in? Or would you rather go down to the station?”
She backed away, held the door for me.
The room had been provided with a small kitchenette. There was a small camp bed, a sofa with a red-and-black-checked throw, two chairs that had seen better days. A gooseneck lamp stood by a card table with a small computer. Textbooks were stacked on the floor.
She gestured toward the sofa, took one of the chairs, sat stiff and straight with her hands folded in her lap. She looked small in an oversize maroon sweatshirt with the emblem of Goddard College.
I looked at the books. “Are you in school?”
“I go part-time.”
“Are you putting yourself through school?”
“Yes.”
There was an admirable story here, a student without a family to help, making her own way, trying hard to build a better life. If Daryl Murdoch had been here, I would have told him he was a fool. I liked this girl, admired her, hoped she and Kirby would have the happiness they both deserved. But . . .
“You told Kirby his father got you fired. Kirby was furious. He called his father, threatened him, said he would pay for what he’d done.”
She didn’t say a word, stared at me with dread.
“He threatened his father, went to his office.“
Lily jumped up. “Kirby didn’t talk to him. He was too late. His father had left.”
“Kirby’s car was seen turning after his father’s.”
“Kirby didn’t follow him. I called Kirby, got him on his cell, told him to come here. He did. We were here. I promise.”
Were they together at her apartment before—or after—Daryl Murdoch was shot?
Chief Cobb’s information indicated Kirby’s gun hadn’t been found. “Where did Kirby keep his gun?”
She hesitated, reluctantly said, “In the trunk of his car.”
“Did you know it’s missing?” I watched her closely.
She lifted a hand to her throat. “It can’t be. Kirby went out for target practice Thursday afternoon.”
“Kirby claims someone stole it.”
Lily jumped to her feet. “If Kirby said it’s gone, it’s gone.”
The gun was gone, but did it disappear before or after Daryl Murdoch died?
———
I smelled cake when I entered the rectory kitchen. I smiled. It was the first time I’d smiled in hours. Tramping around in the cold, finagling information, was draining. I lifted the plastic cover from the stand.
If Bayroo’s cake was as delicious as it looked and smelled, Travis Calhoun was going to be very happy. I wondered if I would be here to attend the Spook Bash tomorrow and see this famous young man.
Very likely yes. I didn’t seem to be making any headway in my task. Or tasks. I’d uncovered multiple motives for murder, but I was unwilling to implicate Cynthia Brown or Walter Carey or Lily Mendoza.
Maybe I wasn’t cut out for detecting. Was I naive? I bristled at the thought. I may have been a small-town girl, but I knew a Galahad from a Cardinal Richelieu. However, and I felt perplexed, perhaps I was too empathetic.
. . . impulsive . . .
I looked toward the ceiling. If Wiggins wanted my attention, he would have to be more direct. I didn’t dwell on the fact that I’d certainly been visible this evening, but now that I was at the rectory, I was properly invisible. Perhaps that would soothe Wiggins. In fact, he should be pleased at my progress.
Had I been hoodwinked by Cynthia or Walter or Lily? Possibly.
In the end, I might feel compelled to reveal to Chief Cobb what I’d learned about one or all of them.
I replaced the cake cover without filching even a tiny swipe of the rich chocolate icing. Perhaps I’d find a snack in the refrigerator.
The rectory was silent. Where was everyone? Especially Kathleen?
It was a quarter to nine. The Abbotts were certainly a busy family. I supposed Father Bill was out on parish duty. I remembered that Bayroo was going to a skating party tonight. As for Kathleen, I felt uneasy. Obviously, she’d tried to stir things up with Walter Carey.
What else had she done?
The porch door slammed.
I was ready with a cheery greeting when the kitchen door opened and a black-robed witch stepped inside, carrying a scruffy broomstick.
Her conical hat tilted forward. Sticky-looking strands of green hair protruded sideways. A squashy red boil disfigured the wrinkled, putty-colored face. A hand swept up, lifting the hat with attached hair and mask. Kathleen dropped her purse onto the table and slipped out of the robe.
“What a stunning outfit.” Almost horrid enough to destroy my appetite. Almost.
Kathleen drew in a sharp breath. “Hello, Bailey Ruth. I didn’t know you were here. How could anyone know?” The last was a mutter. “Isn’t the mask neat?” She sounded more cheerful. “It’s fun to wear a mask. No one can see you frown. Did you know it’s against the rules for a rector’s wife to frown?” She smoothed her ruffled hair. “I was at the Friends of the Library dinner. If I didn’t show up in costume, I’d be fined. That’s twenty-five bucks I can use to buy groceries. But”—her face lightened—“I got in some good work. Bud Schilling’s the junior warden. He’s got a houseful of kids and he’s always wanted the church to build a family center. I told him I knew there’d been some concern on the vestry about Daryl’s saying he was going to talk to Bill about a financial matter. I told Bud Judith Murdoch called me and she said she was sorry Daryl got mad at Bill because of the new plans Bill had for the family center.” Kathleen beamed.
“Clever.” I looked at Kathleen with new respect. The junior warden would tell the rest of the vestry. No one would ever bring up the matter with Judith Murdoch out of kindness. Kathleen had very likely rescued her husband’s career.
Kathleen’s smile faded. “How about you? Do you have anything important to give to the police?”
“Not yet.” I opened the refrigerator d
oor, found some Cheddar cheese. “Walter Carey’s wife called him and told him you’d been to see her.”
Kathleen whirled toward the refrigerator. “How did you know?”
“I was there.” I was already at the cabinet. I opened it, lifted down a box of Ritz crackers.
“Do you eat all the time?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I know you told me to sit tight. I can’t. I’m scared to death for Bill. I had to do something. Harriet’s scared. That seems suspicious to me. Did you find out anything?”
“Possibly. I don’t think Walter’s the murderer. Nonetheless, Kathleen, you should leave it to me to investigate the people who were on the outs with Daryl. I’m already dead.”
She shook her head sharply. “Bill’s in trouble. I have to find out everything I can. I wish I hadn’t thrown that phone in the lake. But I’ll get that information to the police chief someway. I’ve figured out why Bill won’t tell the chief anything. He’s probably protecting Irene Chatham. She’s—”
I interrupted. “The light-fingered member of the Altar Guild.”
I enjoyed Kathleen’s look of awe, but felt compelled to reveal my source. “I checked the church pictorial directory.”
Kathleen paced. “In between working at the church, I’ve looked everywhere for Irene.”
“She’s on my list, Kathleen.” My tone was reproving. Had I learned it from Wiggins?
Kathleen ignored me. “Every time I tried to talk to Isaac, he was surrounded by people wanting him to carry something or move something.”
I topped the crackers with cheese slices and carried my plate to the table.
She watched disapprovingly. “One of these days somebody’s going to walk in and see dishes up in the air and the fat will be in the fire.”
I smiled and enjoyed my snack. “That may be.” Food soothes me and my tone was equable. “Kathleen, sit down and relax. We’ll find out more tomorrow.”
She continued to pace. “Tomorrow I have to help get everything ready for the Spook Bash. I won’t have a free minute.”
I felt great relief. I didn’t want Kathleen to stir up the quiescent tiger. “I’ll see to everything.”
She’d paused by the cake stand, lifted it to look in surprise at Bayroo’s cake.
I explained about the birthday gift and her face softened in a smile. Then once again she looked worried. “I’m going to try again to catch Irene.” She walked toward the phone, but stopped to stare at a slate on a stand next to the telephone. A message was written in red chalk:
7:45 P.M. Urgent. Dad, call Isaac. He’s upset. Something about a wheelbarrow and the police. Gone to skate with Lucinda. Home about nine-thirty.
“Oh.” Kathleen looked faint.
I lost my appetite.
She ran for her car. I was already in the passenger seat, waiting.
———
The brick bungalow’s front shutters gleamed with recent paint in the porch light. Late-blooming pansies added color to the front flower bed. A red candle burned brightly in a toothy jack-o’-lantern on a front step. A skeleton in a pink tutu dangled from a planter hook in the porch ceiling. An engraved nameplate by the doorbell read ISAAC AND EVELYN FRANKLIN.
Kathleen rang the doorbell. She’d insisted that she be the one to talk to Isaac. I insisted I would accompany her, though unseen.
The door opened. Isaac Franklin was on the shady side of fifty, lined dark face, silvered hair, but he looked muscular and fit. The minute he saw Kathleen, his grim expression altered. “Come in, Mrs. Kathleen. You come right in.”
Kathleen stepped inside. “Isaac, what’s this about your wheelbarrow?”
He folded his arms, frowned. “I don’t hold with taking a man’s work tools. Like I said, if a body can’t report mischief without stirring up a hornet’s nest, I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”
A plump pretty woman bustled to his side. She was stylish in a pale violet velvet top and slacks and white boots.
I especially liked the boots. I’d remember them and perhaps another time . . .
She took Isaac’s arm in a firm grip. “Papa, you can’t be on your high horse when there’s been a murder. Come in, Mrs. Kathleen, and Isaac can tell you what happened.”
Kathleen was offered the most comfortable chair in the den.
Evelyn put the TV on mute. Isaac joined his wife on the divan, clamped his hands above his knees. “I’ll tell you, Mrs. Kathleen, I never been so surprised. First thing this morning, I saw somebody had been fooling around in my shed. I don’t leave things any old which way. Everything has a place and everything is in its place. So when I found the wheelbarrow jammed up next to the shovels—”
It had never occurred to me to quiz Kathleen about her return of the wheelbarrow to the shed. I understood her panic and haste, but that hurried dumping of the wheelbarrow might be her undoing.
“—I checked to see if anything was missing. I can tell you I know what’s where.” He looked puzzled. “I looked real good and nothing was missing. Everything else was there and where it should be, but, like I told that officer this afternoon, somebody’d had my wheelbarrow out and I know that for sure because there was some mud on the wheel and I’d just greased it good the other day and I don’t put anything away dirty.” He nodded three times for emphasis. “Somebody took my barrow out and did I don’t know what with it. I’d guess kids, but I don’t see how they got into my shed. It was locked up like always when I left yesterday afternoon and locked again this morning, but somehow somebody got that barrow out and put it back. That seemed mighty odd to me. I went over to tell the rector, but he wasn’t in his office. When I came home for lunch, Evelyn told me she’d heard on TV about Mr. Murdoch being found shot in the cemetery. I called the police because it seemed to me they should know there was something odd going on around the church.” He glowered.
“I didn’t take kindly to it when that officer asked me about how Mr. Murdoch and I had words outside the parish hall on Monday. Turned out Mamie Pruitt couldn’t wait to tell the police about me and Mr. Murdoch, but I told that officer to go and talk to Father Bill. Father Bill took my part just like he should. I got those groceries out of the pantry for the Carter family that live down the block from us. Mr. Carter, he’s in the hospital, and Mrs. Carter, she lost her job, and there’s five kids and no food for the table. Father Bill said of course I could take food for folks in need, but that mean-hearted Murdoch didn’t want help going to anybody but people approved by some committee or other. And the policeman badgered me about keys. Who had keys except for me? Well, like I told him, there are keys here, there, and everywhere. The rector, he has keys to everything, and so do the senior warden and the junior warden and the Sunday school superintendent and the head of the Altar Guild. So it isn’t like I was the only one that has keys. Then he wanted to know where I was between five and seven last evening and I told him it wasn’t no business of his.” His eyes glowed with outrage.
Evelyn patted his stiff arm. “Now, Papa.” She turned bright eyes toward Kathleen. “Isaac was with me. He got home right on schedule at a quarter after five and we had a quick supper then we went over to our daughter Noreen’s and took care of Ikie and Sue so Noreen and Bobby could go to a show.”
Kathleen’s smile was reassuring. “I’m sure the officer didn’t intend to offend you when he asked where you were yesterday. They ask everybody who might have been in the area.”
“See, Papa?” Evelyn patted his arm.
Isaac still frowned. “I don’t hold with that policeman taking my barrow away. He gave me a receipt. I told him I needed my barrow with all the stuff I’ll be hauling away after Halloween’s over, pumpkins and bales of hay and what all. I need my barrow. Mrs. Kathleen, can you get me my barrow back?”
———
Kathleen hunched over the wheel of her car. “If the police link that wheelbarrow to Daryl, Bill will be arrested.” She turned toward me, though, of course, the passenger seat appeared empty. In the wash of a streetlam
p through the window, her face looked pale and desperate.
I agreed. Father Bill was definitely at risk. I was very much afraid for him. If only we knew where the chief’s investigation was headed.
There might be a way to find out if I were clever enough to remember what Bayroo had told me about computers. “I’ll go to the police station and see if I can work the chief’s computer. Bayroo showed me this afternoon.”
Kathleen’s glance at me was pitying. “I don’t think so, Bailey Ruth. You have to know the password and it takes some skill to find files.”
Files? I didn’t want to ask Kathleen what that meant. I pictured a gray steel cabinet. “I know the password. Cougar.”
Kathleen’s eyes narrowed. “If I could get in, I can find out what we need to know.” She pressed fingers tight against her temples for a moment. Her hands dropped. She asked quickly, “Where is his office?”
“City hall. Second floor.”
“Do the windows open?”
“I’ll find out.” Before she could exclaim, I was in the chief’s office.
The windows were old-fashioned, with sashes. Back in the passenger seat, I reported, “Three windows on the south side. They open.”
“That’s all I need. Here’s what we’ll do . . .”
It was a good plan, a daring plan. I hoped it wasn’t a foolhardy plan, but Kathleen was already shoving the car into gear and speeding toward the rectory and the supplies we would need.
———
The chief ’s office was chilly. I remembered my days in the mayor’s office and the way he turned down the thermostat when he departed for the day. He never arrived until a good hour after the staff, so he wasn’t concerned in winter with how long it took for the offices to get warm. I’d arrived to a frosty workplace often enough that I learned to nudge the thermostat up as soon as he was out the door. Now I found the thermostat, pushed it to seventy. I turned on the light.
At the window, I lifted the sash and leaned out.
Kathleen stood in the deep shadow of an old cottonwood. In her witch’s robe, she was simply a darker splotch in the shadow.