by J. R. Ripley
“Or scare everyone off. The specter of death has a way of spoiling vacations.” I couldn’t see the presence of ghost-seekers increasing my birdseed sales either. I told them how Gertie Hammer claimed that Bessie’s husband had drowned in Ruby Lake on the anniversary of Bessie’s own murder.
Karl toyed with his mustache. “Drowned or disappeared?”
I stiffened, my eyebrows rising. “Are you saying he didn’t drown? That he disappeared?” Did the police know something the rest of us didn’t?
“Maybe,” Karl suggested, “this husband of hers didn’t die, just left.” The old man winked at me. “You said he died on his birthday. Maybe, just maybe, he instead gave himself his own birthday present.”
I leaned forward. “You think?”
Karl shrugged. “All I’m saying is that his body was never found.”
“Hey,” said Floyd. “Maybe Arthur faked the whole thing to get away from Bessie!”
And maybe he came back to town a week ago to break her neck . . .
24
Otelia’s Chocolates was a bright, shiny space with a black-and-white checked tile floor and spotless glass cases filled with chocolates of every size and description.
I inhaled deeply, reveling in the scent of fresh chocolate, knowing that breathing rather than eating wouldn’t add inches to my waistline.
Otelia Newsome’s shop is a mere half block from Birds & Bees on the opposite side of the street, nestled in the middle of a strip of stores catering mostly to the tourist trade.
I all but pressed my nose to the glass and drooled as I waited for Otelia to finish up with a family of tourists enjoying an afternoon treat.
“Hello, Amy,” Otelia said, a big smile on her face as she peered at me from behind the counter. “See anything you like?”
“I see a lot that I like. I don’t suppose any of this is low cal, low fat, by any chance?”
Otelia leaned over the display case. “I use real butter, real cream, and sacks and sacks of sugar.”
“So that’s a no?”
Otelia chuckled. “How about a sample of my pecan praline fudge?”
I didn’t say no. “And I’ll take a pound of the banana rum bonbons.” They were Floyd’s favorite. I’d sample a mere one or two and take him the rest.
“Sure thing.” Otelia handed me a slice of fudge on a bit of wax paper and I closed my eyes in ecstasy. “If I worked here, I’d gain five pounds a week,” I said when I reopened my eyes. I noticed a tray of hand-wrapped chocolate bars on the edge of the counter beside the cash register. “Don’t tell me you’re into the widow in the lake, too?”
Otelia noticed my eyes on her dark chocolate bars. “What can I say? The whole thing really seems to have taken off all over town.” She handed me a plain white bag filled with my order of bonbons. “Did you know Ruby’s Diner even has a Widow in the Lake special plate?”
I said I didn’t.
“Yep. And free dessert all day if she appears tomorrow.”
I fingered one of the Widow in the Lake chocolate bars. The image on the front showed Ruby Lake, the silhouette of the old McKutcheon house in the distance, and a spectral-looking Mary McKutcheon floating above the lake. “Interesting.” It seemed that Otelia was already cashing in on the craze, just like Floyd had suggested.
“Isn’t it? I had the wrappers made up at the print shop.”
I told her to throw in a bar of chocolate. I paid in cash and Otelia gave me back a handful of change. I dumped it loose into my purse and fidgeted with its clasp.
“Is there anything else?” asked Otelia.
I looked around the empty shop. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
Otelia twisted up her brow. “Shoot.” There were fine crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. I hadn’t noticed them before.
“Did you get along well with Bessie?”
Otelia pulled off her white smock and came around to the front of the store. She slid the CLOSED, BACK SOON sign over the doorknob, then turned to me. “Don’t tell me you’ve heard about my lurid affair with Bessie’s husband, Arthur?” She waved her hands in the air.
“I don’t mean to pry.”
“Yet you’re doing a good job of it.” Otelia planted her fists on her hips. For a moment, I thought I was in trouble. Then Otelia laughed. “As a single woman in a small town, it seems I’m often the subject of a rumor or two.”
I laughed with her but part of me wondered. I was a single woman, too. Were people making up stories about me?
The chocolatier blew out a breath. “We’re talking a long time ago here. A long, long time ago.” I waited. “One day Bessie came in here mad as a wet hen. She accused me of having an affair with Arthur. I tried to calm her down, convince her that it was nothing but a vicious rumor.”
Otelia paused a moment and glanced out the window. Sunlight slanted through the windows, casting long shadows on the tile. “I’m not sure she believed me.”
“And that was the end of it?”
“Yep. Of course, not long after that, Artie drowned in Ruby Lake.”
“Karl Vogel told me Arthur’s body was never found.”
“No, I don’t suppose it was. But several witnesses had seen him swimming earlier. He was an avid swimmer.”
“Did Bessie ever forgive you?”
“I never even saw Bessie again until we all went bird-watching.” Otelia hugged herself. “It must have been awful finding her out there in the woods like that.”
I said it was, and I knew an opening when I saw it, and this one was as big as the entrance to the Biltmore House, part of George Vanderbilt’s incredible Biltmore Estate located in nearby Asheville. “Do you remember what you were doing that morning?”
I could see by the look in her eye that she knew where I was leading, but she answered anyway without any signs of offense. “I was right here, I suppose. Making chocolates like I do each morning. Especially during the summer busy season.” She beamed. “The tourists do love their chocolates.”
Otelia’s Chocolates was on the lakeside of Lake Shore Drive, with the lake mere steps behind. It wouldn’t have taken a woman like Otelia long to cover the distance from the chocolate shop to the sycamore where I’d discovered Bessie. “I hear Arthur Hammond was fond of chocolate himself.”
“Artie did like his chocolate. Probably more than was good for him. But it was his money, who was I to say no?” She shook her head, as if chasing away memories. “Besides being one of my best customers, he was a nice man. I miss him still.”
There was a rap on the door and we both turned. A hopeful couple stood peering in the glass. Otelia waved to them. “Be right there!” She grabbed her smock off the counter. “I’d better open up.”
I held her back. “One more thing. What made you decide to come bird-watching with us?”
She shrugged nonchalantly. “I thought it might be fun. Get me out of my shop. Meet some people.” She pinched her waist. “Work off some of this.”
“That makes sense.”
“Of course, if I’d known Bessie Hammond was going to be there, I might not have signed up.”
“Well, you won’t have to worry about her showing up on next month’s walk.”
“No, I guess I won’t.” Otelia’s expression was inscrutable as she unlocked the door and removed the CLOSED, BACK SOON sign. I waited for the couple to enter, then exited. The shopping strip bustled with activity.
Ahead of me on the street, I noticed a pickup truck at the curb. Through the back window I could see a man and woman necking. The door flew open on the passenger side. The woman leaned across to the driver, gave him a peck on the cheek, and then stepped out onto the sidewalk. It was Lana Potter, in her waitress uniform.
I turned my head aside but she called my name. “Amy.”
“Hello, Lana.” My eyes darted to the pickup, which sat unmoving at the curb. “It seems we keep missing each other. Let’s go to Birds and Bees. We can talk there.” Whatever she wanted to talk about, I was dying to hear.
&nbs
p; Lana glanced over her shoulder. “I can’t now.”
“How about tomorrow morning?”
Lana shook her head, her long locks flowing like silk. “Make it later. Afternoon. I’m busy in the morning.”
She probably had an early shift at the diner. Ruby’s Diner opens at six. I remembered I’d be busy in the morning myself. Standing outside in the cold waiting for Mary McKutcheon to show herself. “Okay, tomorrow afternoon then. Why don’t you tell me where you live? I can stop by. Just say when.”
Lana said no. “I’ll call you. At the store.” She shifted her leather purse to her opposite shoulder. “I’ve got to run. I’m going to be late.”
Lana walked quickly toward the diner, and heads turned as she did. If I walked that fast, I’d look like a lame chicken. Kim had told me so on more than one occasion. When Lana Potter did so, she looked as sulky and seductive as Brigitte Bardot in her prime. Sometimes life wasn’t fair.
The white pickup came to life, the rear brake lights blinked, and the truck eased into traffic.
That was Gus McKutcheon’s pickup truck. I’d have bet my life on it.
25
“Hand me the thermos.” I shivered and extended my hand.
“Please.”
“Here you go.”
John handed me the stainless-steel flask. “Thanks.” I unscrewed the cap and poured myself a first-of-the-day, bracing cup of coffee. I breathed in the fumes and took a sip. “Wow, this is good.”
John Moytoy smiled. “It’s a mixture of several types of beans that I grind and brew myself.” He was bundled up like it was the first day of winter rather than midsummer. That included jeans, a heavy, long-sleeved green-and-black flannel shirt with a T-shirt showing underneath, mittens, and a trapper cap that made him look a bit Elmer Fudd-ish.
“Maybe you should have become a barista rather than a librarian.” I was shivering in my cotton shorts. At least I’d had the sense to throw a sweater over my Birds & Bees T-shirt. The open-toed sandals had definitely been a mistake. My toes felt like ice cubes.
I could just barely make out the dark form of a small fishing boat in the distance. I brought a fist to my mouth as I yawned. If I ever took up fishing, I’d stick with going after only those fish species that had the decency to keep bankers’ hours.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” grumbled Kim, hugging herself for warmth. She’d dressed rather appropriately in jeans, sneakers, and a cable-knit sweater, so I didn’t know what she was complaining about.
I started humming the opening bars of “Together (Wherever We Go)” from Gypsy.
“Thank you, Stephen Sondheim,” Kim yawned snarkily.
“Actually, Sondheim wrote the lyrics. It was Jule Styne who wrote the music.”
Kim gave me a look that might have turned the entire surface of Ruby Lake to foot-thick ice if directed toward the water rather than me.
“I wonder if we’ll spot any interesting bird species.” I craned my neck toward the treetops. It was too early yet for any real sightings, but come sunrise the trees would come alive with the flutter of wings and cheerful chirping song. “I spotted an American kestrel gliding over the lake earlier in the week.” It had been a male with distinctive black spots along its rusty back and bluish-gray wings. The female’s wings are reddish-brown.
“If you ask me, this whole escapade is for the birds,” was Kim’s reply.
“Buck up,” said John rather cheerily. “At the very least, we should be regaled with a lovely sunrise.”
Kim’s mouth opened in a cavernous yawn. “I can see that on the Weather Channel.”
“But you can’t taste it, you can’t smell it.” John inhaled deeply. “Here you get to experience things with all your senses. This is so much better than TV or even books. Besides, who knows what the morning might bring? Like they say, it’s the early bird that gets the worm.”
“Worms?” Kim tugged at her sleeve and wrinkled her nose. “They can have them.”
It may have been too early for even the early birds and squirrels, but not so for the widow-in-the-lake watchers. There had to be a good thirty or forty people presently huddled together near the edge of Ruby Lake. Some faces looked familiar and I took them to be locals. Others were clearly tourists. Even Ava Turner, our resident movie star, and her ever present assistant, Gail something. I waved Ava’s way and she returned my greeting with a regal nod.
The enterprising couple selling widow-in-the-lake souvenirs out of their van had set up a small folding table, which they now proceeded to fill with Mary McKutcheon–related tchotchkes. Gus McKutcheon was nowhere in sight. I wondered what he would make of all this brouhaha concerning his long-dead ancestor.
Kim, following my gaze, said, “Look at them, gawkers and hawkers.”
Then I noticed Derek’s former wife, Amy, in attendance with several of her friends. I’d completely forgotten they were going to be there.
“Isn’t that Amy Harlan?” Kim poked me. She’d seen her, too.
“Derek mentioned she was coming.” There was no sign of Maeve, their nine-year-old daughter. “I totally forgot.” If I’d remembered, I would have stayed as far away as possible, now realizing how ill-advised it was to be in proximity to Derek’s ex. The women were each dressed in fancy outfits meant more for a morning outing to some fancy coffee shop than a morning of spook-watching at a small-town lake.
“Forget about her,” advised Kim.
“I wish I could,” I grumbled. They’d brought folding chairs that they set up close to the water’s edge.
“She’s always seemed nice enough to me,” John put in.
“You know her?” Kim asked.
“She comes in the library with her little girl once in a while.”
“Can we talk about something or someone else?” I pleaded. “Tell us what you know about Mary McKutcheon,” I urged John.
While John obliged, my eyes drifted. To my surprise, Officer Sutton had also put in an appearance. He was in civilian clothes, workaday jeans, and a gray hoodie over a black T-shirt that extended below it. The hoodie was zipped up to his chin and his hands were buried in its pouch.
At the moment, Officer Sutton was chatting with a pair of bleary-eyed campers who had pitched a small tent near the lake’s edge. The boy and girl looked to be of college age and sat bundled up in folding canvas camp chairs. A sluggish campfire ringed with small stones lay at their feet, sending up wisps of oak-scented smoke. The official campground was about one hundred yards back toward the marina, but rules were lax around Ruby Lake, so the pair, and several more campers, had moved closer to the lake; presumably in hopes of getting a better view of the widow in the lake, should she appear.
I had a sneaking suspicion that the only things we’d be seeing this morning were several new cases of pneumonia.
My eyes lingered on Officer Sutton a little longer. Initially, I had thought Dan was there to keep an eye on things, but the way he kept sneaking looks at my best friend, Kim, I was beginning to believe he was really there to keep an eye on her. Riley must have blabbed that Kim would be there. I knew I hadn’t told him and I couldn’t think of anyone else Kim or I would have told.
Was Sutton planning on asking her out on a date? Here, at this god-awful hour and in front of all these people? Maybe Dan Sutton’s nerves were more steely than I’d given him credit for.
“I’m tired of standing.” Kim grabbed the thick navy-blue wool blanket I’d brought from the apartment and spread it out on the damp grass. John and I joined her; John in the middle and me on the opposite side.
“Where are those cookies you promised?” John asked.
I pulled a plastic container from my satchel purse and handed it over to John. “They’re homemade,” I explained. “Mom and her friend Anita have been experimenting. Mom made these herself.”
John popped open the lid. “They smell good.” He pressed his nose closer.
“Hey.” I turned toward the aroma. “They do.”
John
extended the container to me and then Kim. He reached in and took one for himself.
I took a bite. Each cookie was the circumference of a hockey puck. And, though I’d never tasted one, there was not a doubt in my mind that a hockey puck would taste better. This thing tasted like feet. “Hmm.” I turned the cookie over in my hand. “I just remembered that I’m not hungry.”
John spat his out in the grass. “Sorry,” he said, dusting crumbs off his shirt as he looked at me. “But I think Barbara needs to do more experimenting.”
“I don’t know what the two of you are going on about.” Kim stretched forward past John to see me. “These aren’t bad at all.” She held up her half-eaten cookie. “Am I tasting hazelnut? And bacon?”
I pulled out my Widow in the Lake chocolate bar from Otelia’s and unwrapped it. “Want some?”
Both John and Kim declined. I polished it off in three bites and washed it down with a refill of coffee. I listened to the idle chatter of the watchers and the sloshing of the waves against the shore and waited. And waited. And waited.
This whole thing was probably a complete waste of time. Finally, I leaned back on my elbows, stared at the lake a few moments, then closed my eyes, figuring that at the very least I could get a catnap out of this.
“See anything?” and “No, you?” I heard repeatedly from voices in the crowd.
I opened my eyes to the sounds of throat clearing. Officer Sutton had inched closer to our blanket. I saw he’d been unable to restrain himself and was now holding his very own Widow in the Lake snow globe. “Morning, Miss Simms, Miss Christy.”
“What, no hello for John?” I couldn’t resist saying.
Sutton reddened. “Good morning, John.”
“Hi, Dan.” John saluted. “Here to keep the peace or nab a ghost?”
The officer shrugged. “Just curious, is all.”
To make up for giving the officer a hard time, I scooted over and offered him a spot on the blanket. John and Kim moved over, too, and Dan appeared quite happy to take a seat beside my best friend.
He had his own coffee, bought at the Coffee and Tea House on the square. I recognized the logo—a sprig of tea leaves and four coffee beans. I didn’t offer him one of Mom’s breakfast cookies. He was a police officer, after all. I didn’t want to become known as Amy Simms, Cop Killer.