“You want to hear these or not?”
She told me she was all ears, and I read facts 1 through 4 out loud, and here’s a shocker, Sarah actually asked me to repeat number 4.
“Why the interest?” I asked, and she insisted number 4 might not be a fact at all. She had specifically asked every person who called the sheriff’s office for any connections between the two houses.
“Nothing, nada, zip,” she said.
I scowled at fact number 4. “So the two houses were not built by the same person.”
“Not that I heard. Where did you hear that?”
I thought back. Not from Maxine. Ms. Librarian Extraordinaire hadn’t come across that little detail in any of her research. And lifelong Elizabethan Fanny Baumgarten knew nothing about the connection. Gossips Hollis Klotz and Chester Stewart were also unaware, and even Oliver Earle, Mr. Lake Elizabeth himself, our grocer, postmaster, high bailiff, fire warden, Avon Lady, and realtor—
Realtor.
I blinked, and then I typed, “5. Oliver Earle.”
“What are you typing now?”
“Oliver is the connection,” I said. “It’s not the architect, Sarah. It’s Oliver!”
“Say what?”
“He has ties to both houses. He was the seller’s agent when my father bought our house, and Oliver’s mother worked at the Fox Cove, and—” I stopped. “That last part is between you and me.”
“No kidding.” Sarah reminded me she works at the sheriff’s office and knows how to keep a secret. “And you’ll be happy to know, I’ve been informed of all your cockamamie theories.”
“A through G?” I asked.
“Suspecting Oliver is like suspecting Santa Claus, Cassie.”
No kidding. I remembered the toy snowmobile hiding in the trunk of my car and sighed. “Even if he knew Mr. X, whoever he was, why would he kill him?” I asked.
“And why would he hide him, in pieces, at the Fox Cove?” Sarah added. “Oliver wouldn’t want to draw attention to the Fox Cove.”
“Especially not the Honeymoon Cottage,” I said while re-reading my amendment to fact number 3. “That’s the exact spot where his grandmother plied her trade.”
I re-read that amendment yet again. Cornelius Suitor mentioned I shouldn’t even know the little detail about the Honeymoon Cottage. Jason Sterling had also scolded me that I shouldn’t know where Pru had found the body. “Information that was under wraps,” I whispered. “And Cornelius is helpful.”
“Come again?”
“Fanny says so.”
“Fanny Baumgarten? What are you talking about, Cassie?”
“How do I know that amendment to fact number 3, Sarah?”
“Remind me again, what’s fact number 3?”
I gasped and jumped. “I have to go,” I said. “I just came up with cockamamie theory H!”
“H!?” she exclaimed, and I hung up in the midst of yet another reminder that I am Looney Tunes.
***
“Arlene!” I said when she answered. “Just the person I was hoping for. Merry Christmas.”
“Cassie Baxter? You again?”
“Me again! Is this a good time?” Earth to Cassie Baxter. I cringed before that question had even escaped my lips. Of course it wasn’t a good time. There’s never a good time to talk to Arlene Pears—.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” she reminded me. “Shouldn’t you be with that kid of yours?”
“Got it covered,” I answered and crossed my fingers that my father, Joe, Paige, and Maxine were finding some way to explain my absence to my son. And for the record? My father had tried to call me twice while I was on the phone with Sarah. I ignored those calls.
“Anyway.” I spoke to Arlene. “I have some questions for you and your sister. Can you put Pru on the line, please?”
“Of course!” she said sarcastically. “Anything for you! Pru and I have nothing better to do at six p.m. on Christmas Eve than answer to you.”
“How can we help, Cassie?”
I shook my head. “Pru?”
“I’m on the upstairs line,” she told us, and Arlene spat out a colorful word.
I ignored the word and continued, “I have two quick questions.”
“We’ve already answered your questions,” Arlene snapped. “Pru and I aren’t getting DNA tests, and we don’t know anything about this Olivia person. We are innocent. In-no-cent.”
“Those aren’t my questions,” I said and got to my first question before she could start cursing again. “Who, besides the two of you, knows that Pru found Mr. X in the Honeymoon Cottage?” I asked. “Not just anywhere, but in that cottage.”
A pause, before Pru finally spoke up. “No one’s supposed to know that,” she told me. “We were sworn to secrecy.”
“How do you know?” Arlene demanded, and I replied honestly I didn’t remember.
“But I heard it from someone,” I said. “Maybe one of you let it slip to someone by accident? It has been years.”
“We did not ‘let it slip,’” Arlene said. “We’re not gossips. Not like everyone else in this godforsaken town.”
Pru cleared her throat, and a little more politely, also assured me that neither of them had revealed the secret to anyone.
I took a deep breath. “So who else knew? Who else was there that day you found the skeleton?”
“Oden Poquette,” Pru said. “Did he tell you about the Honeymoon Cottage?”
Yes, but—
I swallowed. “Who else?” I asked in a steady voice.
“How about the so-called authorities who came out to investigate?” Arlene said. “Sheriff Cleghorn and all those clumsy Hilleville cops. Did one of them blab this to you?”
Nope. In fact the cops I had spoken to were surprised I knew that little detai—”
“That’s it, Cassie,” Pru said. “So who told you?”
“Who?” Arlene asked.
The million-dollar question.
I turned my chair and watched the snow falling outside. The person who told me the little Honeymoon Cottage detail was the person who put Mr. X there, the person who killed—
“Hello-o!” Arlene banged her receiver on something, and I’m pretty sure Pru flinched along with me. “Merry Christmas and good-bye.”
“One more question!” I said quickly. “Don’t hang up!”
“What?” Arlene again banged her phone. “Get on with it.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “My second question involves real estate.”
“Real estate? It’s Christmas Eve! No one in their right mind is thinking about real estate.”
I blinked. “You’re right.”
“I’m always right.”
“You-hoo,” Pru interjected. “What’s your question, Cassie?”
“It’s about your father,” I said, just as I noticed my own father was again trying to call me. Again, I ignored him. “This would have happened when you guys lived in Boston,” I said. “Did your father ever get an offer on the Fox Cove?”
“An offer to what?” Pru asked.
“To sell,” I said. “Did a realtor from up here ever contact Arnie about selling the Fox Cove Inn?”
“No,” the sisters answered in unison. Firmly, and quickly.
I asked how they could be so sure. “Back then, you two didn’t even know the Fox Cove existed, right? Maybe a realtor approached your father. Maybe he just didn’t tell you.”
“No,” the sisters again answered in unison, and I again asked how they could be so sure.
“Because our father was always broke,” Arlene said. “Pen-ni-less. If someone actually offered him good money, bad money, or any other kind of money for this dump, he would have jumped on it.”
“Arlene’s right,” Pru told me.
“I’m always right.”
“Daddy would have sold in a heartbeat.”
“But no one in their right mind would buy this place,” Arlene added. “That’s how Pru and I got stuck with—”
The l
ine went dead.
Dead?
I banged the receiver on my desk, Arlene-style, before putting it back to my ear. “Pru? Arlene? Are you still there?”
I heard an odd click, and noticed my computer screen had gone blank.
Insert colorful words… Here.
Oh, but someone was on the stairs.
“Bambi!” I yelled out. “I’m up here. You’ll never believe it, but I’ve thought of the most perfect gift for Truman.” I stood up and rounded the corner of my desk. “And I think I know who Mr. X was, and I absolutely know who killed him. Cockamamie Theory H!”
“H?”
I stumbled backwards. “Who? What?”
But I knew who, and I knew what. And that wasn’t Bambi standing in the doorway.
Make that. Blocking the doorway.
Chapter 41
“Paula!” I tried sounding only mildly startled. “What are you doing here?”
“Theory H,” she reminded me. “Who killed Mr. X?”
I swallowed. “Umm. Aren’t you supposed to be in Boston right now?”
“Umm. Aren’t you supposed to be in Lake Bess right now?” She curled her lip. “That’s what your father thinks.”
“Oh!” I tried sounding only mildly interested. “So you called the house?”
“Your father acted like I might ask him for a date.”
I tried smiling. No, really. I tried. And—oh goody—Paula was smiling also.
“Bobby obviously doesn’t know what you know,” she said. “And he obviously doesn’t know I know what you know.”
“How do you know I know?” I asked, and nonchalantly backed up behind the corner of my desk. “That is, if you know I know whatever it is you think I know. You know?”
Oh, yeah. That all made perfect sense. I shut up and stared at the axe. Oh, yeah. Have I mentioned that little detail? Paula Erikson was holding—make that, wielding—an axe. Or maybe it was a hatchet—
Whatever, Cassie! Whatever it was, it was definitely a weapon. And what did ninety-three-pound me have for a weapon? I spotted the stapler on my desk but somehow decided that wouldn’t cut it.
Umm. No pun intended.
“Answer my question!” Paula stepped forward. “Who killed Mr. X?”
“You!” I answered point-blank. And maybe I wasn’t thinking straight, but I knew she knew I knew. And while Paula was busy snarling, I tried thinking straight. I shot a glance behind me. The snow had let up, so maybe—
“You’ll never make it out that window,” she said.
Great. Not only did the woman have an axe, she could also read minds.
I needed help. I needed a Christmas miracle. I needed—I needed Bambi! Bambi was due any minute and then—
Then what?
Whatever, Cassie! I needed to stall—
“So, Paula!” I said all breezy-like. “How exactly did you know I know?” I pointed to my computer. “Especially since I didn’t know until about five minutes ago.”
She snarled again. “First of all, you’re Cassie Baxter, Ms. Super Sleuth.”
Oh, yeah. Super.
“And you mentioned Boston last night,” she continued.
“Oh, yeah! Boston!” Stall, stall, stall. “The Boston connection.” I tapped my chin. “What theory was that? G? No!” I held up my index finger. “G was the supposed San Diego connection. The Boston connection was Theory F.” I nodded all casual-like. “Sooo, Theory F actually has merit? There really is a Boston connection?”
“It’s where Gary ran off to before—” She stopped and stupid, stupid me just had to notice her grip tighten on the ax—
“Who’s Gary?” I asked.
“What!?” she snapped, and I jumped. “You don’t even know Gary is Mr. X? And yet you still know I killed him? How?” she demanded.
Well. Since she asked. And since I was stalling. “First of all,” I said slowly, “you’re not an Elizabethan. Yet you’ve been awfully interested in all the legends, and lore, and rumors surrounding Lake Bess.”
“So what?”
“So you were distracting me, Paula. And this idea that the Fox Cove and my father’s house were built by the same person.” I shook my head. “Nope. Just another distraction to keep me pointed in the wrong direction.”
“Super sleuth,” she muttered. Actually, she sputtered out a few more not too flattering labels —
“And another thing,” I kept going as if my life depended on it, because here’s a fact—it did. “You don’t have a buyer for Joe’s house,” I told her. “No one in their right mind thinks about real estate during the holidays.” I blinked at the axe and quickly moved on from that ‘right mind’ idea. “You used Joe’s house as an excuse to call me,” I said. “You were keeping tabs on me.”
Another snarl.
“And another thing,” I said. “You never had a buyer for the Fox Cove Inn all those years ago.”
“Ha!” She perked up. “You’re wrong on that.”
“Really?” I asked, all interested-like. “How am I wrong?”
Paula informed me she did have a buyer for the Fox Cove. She jabbed her free thumb at herself. “I’m a damn fine realtor.”
I pointed to the phone on my desk. “But I just talked to the Pearson sisters. They say their father would have sold in a heartbeat.”
“If I had ever contacted him.”
I stared at the axe as it dawned on me. Paula didn’t ever contact Arnie, because the Fox Cove Inn was the perfect place to—
I looked up. “Place,” I said. “The Honeymoon Cottage. You told me exactly where they found Mr. X because you—” I pointed. “Because you put him there.”
She muttered an obscenity.
“Because of the irony,” I kept going. “Because Mr. X—Gary—was your ex-husband.”
Paula jumped. “Wrong again! Gary was my husband. Not my ex.”
Really? Okay, so I kept talking. “And sooo—” I said. “And so, umm, you killed Gary because you didn’t want a divorce?”
“Wrong again! He’s the one who didn’t want a divorce. He came crawling back to me after the woman in Boston dumped him. Literally. Crawling.”
I swallowed.
“Down on his knees.” Paula raised an eyebrow. “I was chopping wood at the time.”
I swallowed again and willed myself to keep talking. “Why wasn’t there a missing person’s report?”
“Excuse me? Who in their right mind would miss Gary?” she demanded. “No children, no friends, no job. The man was nothing without me. And what did I get? A great big, bloody mess, that’s what!” She took a great big step forward, and my knees buckled.
But—
But, hark the herald! I heard someone in the hallway.
“Bambi!” I shouted. “She has an ax—”
Paula spun around and Joe—
Joe?
***
Joe.
At first I couldn’t watch. But then I tried to help. Then I stepped back. Then I cringed. Then I winced. Then I grimaced.
And then—Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!—then Joe got Paula pinned to the wall. He held her back with one shoulder, and held the stupid axe with his free hand.
“Why are you here?” I asked him.
“What!? You’re kidding me, right? I could use some help here, Cassie.”
Oh. Yeah. I stumbled forward and took the axe, and while Paula writhed around sputtering obscenities, Joe grabbed hold of her with both arms. “Thanks,” he told me.
“You’re kidding me, right? Thank you!” I was finally saying when I heard someone else in the hallway. “Bambi!” I called out. “We’re in here. What took you so lon—”
Jason?
Jason Sterling with handcuffs?
“Why are you here?” I asked him.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“I could use some help over here!” That was Joe.
I turned around. “And why are you here? And where the heck is Bambi?”
“Here,” she hollere
d from the stairwell. “This better be good, Cassie. What a day I’ve had. First, all the various Vixens vexing me left, right, and center, then fighting the crowds shopping, then snow. Then I finally make it home, only to argue with Pete about driving over here to help the Queen of Cockamamie with her supposed emergen—”
She made it to my doorway.
“—cy.”
Chapter 42
Bambi glanced around at all the people in my office, but ultimately her eyes landed on the axe, which had somehow ended up on my desk. “I’m afraid to ask,” she said. “Like, really afraid.”
Maybe. But while Jason handcuffed Paula and read her her rights, and while Paula spat out expletive after expletive, I explained the basics about Mr. X’s true identity, and why Paula had killed him.
She took a break from cursing to snarl at me. “Ms. Super Sleuth has it all figured out.”
Actually, no. I was still confused about why she had brought the body to Lake Bess. “Why not just, you know, bury him?” I had to ask.
Paula again took a break from cursing to tell me she’s far better at wielding an axe than a shovel. Let’s just say, she had trouble burying the body, and let’s just say, there are a lot of wild animals in Vermont, and—
“And I’m a damn fine realtor,” she bragged. “When I had a client interested in a B and B on a lake, I did my homework.”
“And you discovered the Fox Cove Inn,” Jason said.
“Spooky stuff happens at the Fox Cove,” Joe added.
Paula shrugged. “The perfect place to dump Gary.”
“But what about Cassie’s house?” Joe asked. “Why did Truman have to find the skull?”
“Because she didn’t want the skull with the body,” Jason answered. “Made it almost impossible to ID.” He looked at Paula. “I take it you buried the skull separately?” he asked.
“Behind my woodshed for twenty years,” she mumbled. “It—bugged me.”
Well, duh. I guess it would have. So when my father moved to Vermont, looking for a lake house, Paula had already done her homework. She knew about Lake Bess, and she knew all the legends, lore, and rumors would keep people guessing if the skull ever did get found.
“And the old Tumbleton house, with all its nooks and crannies, had a lot of hiding places,” I said.
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