I told her Oliver Earle was making a list.
“And checking it twice?” She sighed again. “Why’s your state trooper just picking on us poor realtors anyway? Why is everyone else off the hook?”
I shook my head and told her the only person who was completely off the hook was my five year old son. “My state trooper, as everyone keeps calling him, is checking into a lot of ideas. We have cockamamie theories coming out the ying-yang around here.”
“Cockamamie?”
“And complicated,” I added. “But the basic arithmetic works.”
“Arithmetic?”
“For A, B, and C, that is.” I frowned. “But trust me, D and E are completely and totally preposterous.”
She skipped a beat. “You have five theories?”
“It’s been a long day.”
Paula laughed, but then stopped herself. “I know this is no laughing matter,” she said. “And why am I even surprised? Considering that kooky little town you live in, with all the legends and lore, five theories seems almost—reasonable.”
“And never fear,” I told her. “If none of these theories pan out, I’m sure I’ll come up with more. Tomorrow. Is another day.”
She laughed again. “Keep me posted?” she asked. “When will you be back in Montpelier?”
“Not for three weeks.” I reminded her Crabtree College was closed for holiday.
“Well then, wish your father a Merry Christmas for me. Put in a good word for me?”
I sat up straight. “A good word? With my father? You betcha!” A thought occurred to me. “Hey, Paula,” I said. “Do you have any plans for Christmas?”
She hesitated. “Why?”
“If you’re not busy, come join us for Christmas dinner.”
Well, darn. She was busy. She and several girlfriends were driving down to Boston that day. “We’re all diehard Patriots fans and they’re playing the Broncos on the twenty-sixth.”
I gasped. “In Boston!”
“I know it’s not very traditional,” she continued. “But after listening to women with husbands and families complain at this time of year, my single friends and I think we’ve got the better end of that bargain.”
“Nooo.” I shook my head and told her I wasn’t talking about her holiday plans. “I’m talking about Boston. The game is in Boston.”
“That’s right. Are you okay, Cassie?”
I stood up to pace. “Perfect,” I said. “I just came up with another theory. Cockamamie Theory F!”
“F?” she squeaked.
“The Boston connection!” I said. I wished her a very Merry Christmas and hung up.
Chapter 36
Lucky me, Arlene was the Pearson sister who answered the phone. I crossed my fingers and gamely said hello. “I know it’s kind of late.”
“Kind of?” she snapped. “It’s after midnight, Cassie.”
For the record, it was closer to ten, but why quibble over details? Instead, I crossed my fingers again. “May I come over?” I asked.
“Here? Now? After midnight?”
“Just for a minute,” I said. “I need to ask you and Pru about something.”
“Then ask me over the phone. What is it?”
“It’s important,” I said. “Tell Pru I’ll be there in a jiffy,” I added, and hung up before Arlene could beat me to it.
***
Notz and I tiptoed past Truman’s room. Boy, dog, and toy cow were sleeping soundly, and I sent the cat in to join them.
I tiptoed down the stairs to my father’s room and listened at the door. The old man was snoring. I opened the door a crack. “Dad,” I whispered.
“Hmm?”
“Dad,” I said a little more loudly, and he sat up straight.
“Cassie! What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I whispered. “I’m going out for a few minutes. I need to run an errand.”
“What? Where? It’s after midnight, girl.”
“Go back to sleep,” I told him. “I’ll be home shortly.”
***
Lucky me again, Arlene was the Pearson sister who answered the door. I shot a glance around her shoulder, assessed my chances of being invited inside, and resigned myself to freezing. Nevertheless, I began with a compliment. “You were right,” I told her.
“I’m always right. What am I right about?”
“People are way too happy to talk about the Pearson ghost-guys, but they clam up at the mere mention of any other legends or lore.”
“What other legends?” Pru asked. Showing uncharacteristic initiative, she elbowed her sister aside and pulled me in. “Shut the door, Arlene. It’s cold out there.”
Arlene gave it a mighty slam, and the three of us vied for space on the doormat. “Well?’ she demanded. “What is it? What is this all-important question of yours?”
“Olivia DeMuir,” I said loud and clear.
Nothing.
I looked back and forth between the sisters. Maybe Pru was scowling in puzzlement, and maybe Arlene was frowning in irritation, but those are pretty much their standard expressions.
“Olivia DeMuir used to live in your Honeymoon Cottage,” I said. “She worked there,” I said firmly.
Pru’s scowl switched to a cringe, but Arlene seemed content to stay with the frown. “What are you implying?” she asked me.
I had no idea, but I told the sisters I was curious, which was no lie. “I’m wondering if your father ever mentioned her.”
“Never heard of her,” Arlene said.
“Olivia DeMuir,” I repeated. “She moved to Boston after the bordello closed down, and I know your father moved to Boston not much after that, and I know you were both born and raised in Boston, and so—”
“And so what?”
Ho hum. I turned to Pru. “You’re sure you’ve never heard of this woman?”
She shook her head. “Sorry, Cassie, but Daddy never talked about the—you know.”
“The bordello!” Arlene snapped at her sister. “Why should you be sorry Daddy never mentioned that stupid bordello?” She spun around to me. “Why should we be sorry about anything?” She took a step forward, which meant I was more or less squished against the door. But since she couldn’t actually push me through a closed door—
I held my ground. “Olivia DeMuir had a child when she was here,” I said. “A little boy.”
Arlene raised an eyebrow. “Like that little kid of yours?”
“Truman is a little boy,” I conceded. “But right now we’re talking about—”
“Shouldn’t Santa Claus be worried about Truman? Shouldn’t she be shopping right now?”
I smirked. “Come on, Arlene. You’re the one who keeps insisting it’s after midnight. And right now we’re focusing on Olivia DeMuir.”
“Nooo.” She met my smirk with one of her own. “Right now you are focusing on Olivia DeMuir. And right now Pru and I are going to bed.” She shoved her sister aside and opened the door. “Go home,” she said and gave me a mighty shove into the night.
I wished the closed door a very Merry Christmas.
***
“Where have you been?” my father demanded the second I walked in.
I blinked a couple of times and tried to register the scene. My father and Joe were standing in the middle of the living room, staring and glaring. At me, of course.
“What are you doing here?” I asked Joe.
“Bobby called me.”
I shook my head. “Why?”
“Because he was worried.”
“Worried sick,” Dad elaborated. “It is after midnight.”
“Old man! It’s not even—” I glanced at the clock and decided not to quibble. Instead, I skirted past him and made a show of hanging up my coat.
“Where have you been?” he persisted.
“We’ve been worried,” Joe added.
Oh, please. I plopped into the nearest rocking chair, invited the two worrywarts to do the same, and told them I had driven over to the Fox Cove.
“The Fox Cove!?” my father exclaimed.
“Would you keep your voice down?” I hissed. I pointed upward. “You’ll wake Truman.”
“That child could sleep through an avalanche,” Dad reminded me, in a whisper. “What were you doing traipsing off to the Fox Cove at this hour?”
“I needed to asked the Pearson sisters about—” I shot a glance at Joe. “—things.”
“What things,” Joe asked, and my father commenced with his usual routine about putting myself in danger and getting into trouble, and, and, and.
I rolled my eyes at Joe, but of course he took my father’s side. “Dealing with Arlene Pearson at this hour does seem pretty extreme,” he told me.
I rocked forward. “I’ll tell you what’s extreme. That I can’t leave the house without Bobby calling out the National Guard.”
“I didn’t call the National Guard,” Dad said. “I called Joe.”
I shook my head and rolled my eyes and turned to the man in question. “You were right, you know.”
“About what?”
“About putting your house on the market. Once it sells, we’ll both be free of this kind of nonsense. This is ridiculous.”
Joe blinked. “I’m glad you think it’s a good idea,” he mumbled.
“You always have good ideas,” I mumbled back and decided to stare at the Christmas tree.
***
My father cleared his throat, and I looked up. “Yes?” I asked in am exceedingly calm and serene voice.
“Couldn’t you have just called the Pearsons?” he asked me.
“Nooo, I couldn’t. I had a question, and I wanted to see the look on their faces when I asked it.”
“About Mr. X?”
“It was more about—” I stopped and bit my lip.
“Things,” Joe reminded me. “Things regarding Olivia DeMuir?”
I sighed. “Okay, maybe,” I said. “But if it makes everyone feel any better, my Cockamamie Theory F went absolutely nowhere.”
“F!?” both men exclaimed, and while my father whimpered from the sidelines, Joe asked me to back up. “Paige mentioned Theories A through C when she got home this afternoon—”
I jumped. “She didn’t tell you A through C?”
“She said she was sworn to secrecy.”
“Good!”
“But now you’re all the way up to F?” he asked.
I sat back and closed my eyes. “Let’s just say, it’s been a long day.”
“Not long enough,” my father told me.
I opened one eye. “Why?”
“Because Jason Sterling called the minute you left.”
“What!?” I sprang up and lunged for the phone. “You drive me nuts, old man. Why didn’t you say so?”
“I just did say so.”
I flapped my arms. “Da-aad! What did he say? What did he find out about—” I dropped my arms and stared at Joe. “—things.”
My exceedingly annoying father told me Jason’s call was why he had gotten up in the middle of the night in first place. “I tried going back to sleep after you left, Cassie, but then—” He stopped and stared at the Christmas tree.
“Then what?” I asked impatiently.
“Then Sterling called and upset him,” Joe answered. He gave me a meaningful look and tilted his head toward my father. For the record, Bobby is usually a spry and young-looking seventy-three year old. But at that particular moment—
I took a deep breath, and spoke quietly and calmly. “What did Jason say, Dad?”
“He asked for you, of course.” My father looked up. “I told him you stepped out on a supposed errand, and he told me most normal people don’t go traipsing off in the middle of the night looking for murderers, and I told him you’re not norma—”
“I am looking for loved ones!” I snapped, forgetting all about the quiet-calm thing. I grabbed the phone. “Go home,” I told Joe.
“If there’s anything I can help with—”
“Go. Home.”
He frowned at the receiver in my hands, wished my father a goodnight, and walked out.
I stared at the closed door.
Insert colorful words… Here.
***
“Cassie?”
“Hmm?”
“Girl?”
I tore my gaze from the door and realized my father had taken a seat at the kitchen counter. “Go to bed,” I told him.
“Nope.” He reached over and tapped the speaker phone button. “Let’s find out who killed Nate Wylie.”
I punched in Jason’s number. “Why didn’t you ask him yourself?”
“Because I was too busy worrying about you.”
Jason picked up on his end. “It’s me,” I said. “Thanks tons for getting my father into a complete and total tizzy.”
“Cassie? Are you okay? Are you safe?”
“Apparently so,” I muttered and hoped everyone noticed the exceedingly sarcastic tone. “You’re on speaker phone, by the way.”
“Hello again, Mr. Baxter. Where were you anyway?”
I assumed that question was meant for me, so I mentioned my new Theory F.
“F!?”
“My sentiments exactly,” Dad said.
I ignored the sarcasm, and explained Theory F. “The Boston connection,” I said. “Olivia DeMuir and her son, and Arnie Pearson and his daughters, all lived in Boston.”
“That’s it?” Jason asked.
I frowned. “Well. Yeah.”
“That’s not much of a theory, Cassie.”
Well. No. So I admitted Cockamamie Theory F had been a complete waste of time. “Neither Pru nor Arlene seemed to know the slightest thing about Olivia DeMuir,” I said. “But it was late, and they were tired, and—”
“Do you ever get tired?” Jason asked.
“No, unfortunately,” my father answered for me.
I waved a hand and reminded everyone we were supposed to be concentrating on Theory C. “Did you find out who killed Nate Wylie?” I asked Jason. “Who was this teenager of yesteryear?”
“Yesteryear?”
“My choice of wording,” Dad said.
“Good word,” Jason said. “His name is still under wraps, but the teenager of yesteryear—we’ll call him John Doe—is alive and kicking.”
Dad and I scowled at each other. “So this John Doe, the teenager who killed Nate Wylie, can’t be Mr. X,” I clarified.
“Correct,” Jason agreed, and I have to admit I slumped a little when he told us the police in San Diego had interviewed the guy to verify that he was indeed, alive and kicking.
“That’s good news for John Doe,” my father said.
“It’s good news for everyone, Mr. Baxter.” Jason told us John Doe had matured into an upstanding citizen. “He killed Nate Wylie when he was sixteen, but he’s never been in trouble since.”
I thought about it. “And yet he lives in San Diego.”
“I hear the weather’s nice.”
“Come on, Jason. You told us just this afternoon that Sally Tumbleton lives in San Diego.”
“And?”
“And sooo,” I said. “We’re are now looking at Theory G.”
My father groaned.
Jason Sterling groaned.
“G,” I persisted. “The San Diego connection!”
My father stopped groaning, and announced he was going to bed.
Jason stopped groaning and reminded me he was heading to New Hampshire later the next day.
“So we’re back to square one?” I whined.
“For now,” he said but promised to pick up the investigation where it left off after Christmas. “Meanwhile, you have to be patient.”
“Not one of her virtues,” Dad said from halfway up the stairs.
Chapter 37
“Evadeen Deyo is a hero, Momma Cass.”
Now, this was new and different. The little guy was waking me up, instead of the old guy.
I sat up and took a look, but sure enough, both of
them were sitting in the rocking chair at the edge of my bed. I nodded to my father. “Are we feeling a little tired this morning?”
“We were up past midnight,” Dad said with a yawn.
“Momma Cass, you’re not listening.”
I swallowed a yawn and gestured for the pets to join me. “Evadeen,” I said. “A hero.”
“That’s right. She saved the Mayla of Fayla when he fell into the Ballroom Bayla!”
Hello?
I shook my head and tried to think. “Is the Mayla like the mayor?”
“That’s right.” My father roused himself. “And the Bayla is like a lake, and—”
“And the Bayla’s below the ballroom balcony,” Truman said. “And it’s dangerous because of the ripples.”
I tried to think some more. “Riptide?” I asked.
“That’s right,” Dad said. “And—”
“And guess what, Momma Cass. Faylians can’t swim!”
I scowled at Charlie, and the dog more or less shrugged. “But Fayla is famous for its beach resorts,” I protested.
“Grandpa Bobby says it’s ironic.”
I looked to my father. “Yet these ironically non-swimming Faylians built their ballroom balcony over a bayla with a dangerous riptide?”
Mr. Sci Fi Author shrugged and let his grandson do the explaining.
“And then,” Truman was saying. “Then during the sashayla, Rayla Jonesayla the Mayla of Fayla went out to the balcony for some fresh air, and Evadeen and Chance were out there since they weren’t dancing the sashayla, and Mayla Jonesayla fell right off the balcony!”
“Holy moly!” I said.
“Right into the Ballroom Bayla, Momma Cass! Splashhhhh!”
“Wow!”
The kid nodded. “It was because he had drunken too much Whoozit Boozit.”
“Sounds like it,” I agreed. “Then what happened?”
“And then!” He clapped gleefully. “And then Evadeen Deyo made a big splash. She dived right into the Ballroom Bayla to save the Mayla. Evadeen’s a good swimmer, you know.”
Call me Looney Tunes, but I think I actually was actually following the plot. “Even in her fancy ballgown?” I asked, and Truman insisted Evadeen’s a “really, really” good swimmer.
I squinted at the author.
“Beats all get out,” Dad said in between yawns.
***
“Yayla Eee-eve!” Truman hollered. “Christmas Eee-eve!” he added as he, Charlie, and Notz ran around, and around, and around the coffee table. The kid lifted his arms up high. “Yayla Eee-eve, Christmas Eee-eve, Yayla—”
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