by J. R. Ripley
“You should call a vet.”
“Yes, we have suggested this to Mr. McKutcheon.”
“So what is Miss Kitty doing out here?”
“We had discovered the cemetery in our wanderings in the forest. Channing is very fond of animals. A real animal lover, as you say. She wanted Miss Kitty to have a proper burial. She agreed that it would not be appropriate burying her in the McKutcheon family plot, but neither did she want us simply burying her in the field.”
I nodded. It sort of made sense. “Are any of McKutcheon’s remaining goats diseased?” I had been fed goat the night I’d come for dinner. Had I eaten diseased goat?
“Not that I have been made aware. At least, no others have died.”
No, but I was thinking I might.
My stomach felt queasy. I had possibly eaten a goat with a deadly disease. I had been wrong about a human body being buried at the McKutcheon family plot.
Worse of all? I had texted the chief of police pictures of Miss Kitty the goat’s final resting place.
I groaned. There’d be no living that down, not if I lived to be as old as Esther. And frankly, at that moment, I rather wished I was dead.
28
“Hey, careful!” I said, bending over to remove the empty bird-feeding tray that someone had carelessly left near the top step of the stairs leading to the second floor. I had returned to Birds & Bees, run upstairs to take a long hot shower and dress for work.
“What are you hollering about, Simms?” Esther shouted up.
I skipped downstairs carrying the tray with me. “This.” I set it on the front counter beside her. “You left it on the stairs. I was coming down.”
“So? You want me to thank you for bringing it? Thank you.” Her voice was laced with sarcasm.
“No,” I said, forcing myself to remain calm. “I want you not to leave things like this lying around. Especially on the stairs. I might have tripped.”
“It wasn’t me.” Esther poked her nose under the counter. “Have you seen my feather duster?”
“Nope. Not me.”
“Huh.” She scratched her hips and started pulling open the drawers of the low cabinet against the wall. “Where could it be?”
I lifted the bird-feeding tray. I’d return it to the shelf where it belonged. “Just be more careful in the future, Esther. I could have been killed.”
Esther yawned. “Were you?”
“Was I what?”
“Were you killed?”
I drew back my chin, rehearsing all the things I was going to say. Then I realized there was no sense arguing with the woman. Especially when I knew I couldn’t win. I balanced the tray on the stack where it had come from, smiling as I watched Esther in her search for that feather duster. I glanced surreptitiously at the owl nesting box where I had sequestered that horrible feathered instrument. Esther could poke around all she wanted; her search was doomed to remain unsuccessful.
Channing came in followed by Riley, his hands filled with shopping bags. Cousin Riley lumbered over to the counter and dropped his load.
“What’s in the bags?” I poked my nose in the first one.
“Esther sent me to the market for groceries.”
“I thought Channing might need a hand.” Riley thrust his hands in his pockets, looking like a puppy waiting to be given a pat on the head.
“How’s everything here?” Channing ran a hand quickly through her locks as she began removing groceries. A lot of it looked like stuff that was probably going straight to Esther’s apartment rather than the store’s kitchen. I’d have to have a word with her about that. Store funds were not intended to be used to fill her pantry.
Channing pulled out a small can.
“I’ll take that.” Esther’s hand shot out and her gnarled fingers wrapped around the can. She deposited it quickly in the pouch of her smock.
“Is that cat—” I turned in Pavlovian response to the tinkle of the front door chimes. It was Paul Anderson.
“Hey, Amy. I hear another one of your bird-watchers dropped dead,” he said rather callously. “I’m sure glad I didn’t decide to go on your little bird walk. I might have been next.”
“You still could be,” I couldn’t help quipping.
“Ha-ha.” Paul ran his fingers through his hair. “Seriously though, it’s too bad about Lana Potter.”
“You knew her?”
“We talked. Sometimes at the diner. Plus, she ate at Brewer’s a time or two.”
“Alone?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did she dine alone?”
Paul scratched the top of his head. “Well, once or twice. Yeah. Another time with that Gus McKutcheon. You know, the fellow who came to our Birds and Brews event.” He chuckled. “The way that Gus was coming on to you, I thought Derek was going to blow a gasket.”
I gave him my ugliest look. “Shouldn’t you be at your beer garden doing beer stuff?”
Paul grinned. “I spilled a bucket of mash all over my pants.” That explained the nasty stains all over his jeans and the strong smell. “I came home to change. See ya.”
“Wait!” I called as Paul headed for the stairs.
He turned. “Yeah?”
My lips twitched. “Speaking of Derek . . .”
“What about him?”
“Have you seen him lately?”
Paul’s hand gripped the banister. “He stopped in for a quick bite yesterday. Why? Trouble in Romanceville?”
I blushed. “Of course not.”
“Right, of course not,” Paul parroted insolently.
I pressed on. “Has Derek said anything to you about, you know, Amy—Amy the Ex, that is—and wedding gowns?”
“Oh, that.” Paul waved a dismissive hand, then swatted at the lower half of his pant leg, leaving yeasty residue on the lower steps. “I’m sure it’s only a phase. I mean, sure, right now she’s all gung-ho, but from what Derek tells me about her, she’ll be on to something or someone else before you know it. Well, gotta go.”
Paul jogged upstairs, leaving me with a hundred unanswered questions. I’d read that the Egyptian plover dances around inside the open jaws of crocodiles, where it picks tiny bits of food from between their sharp teeth. The plover gets food and the croc gets free dental care. It seemed like a perfect arrangement, unless or until that crocodile yawned or simply decided to vary its diet with a little bird meat.
I was beginning to feel like that plover, dancing between the fangs of a crocodile, staying alive only through its whims.
I turned back, looking for Esther. I wasn’t finished with her yet. But Esther was gone and Riley and Channing were putting things away in the corner kitchen. I walked over and told Riley that I wanted a word alone with Channing. I waited until he was out of hearing range, then waved for Channing to take a seat.
I sat beside her and folded my hands in my lap. “Did you hear what happened this morning?”
Channing smiled pleasantly. “No, what?”
“Lana Potter drowned in Ruby Lake.”
The blood seemed to drain from Channing’s face and she buried her face in her hands. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. “Yes, I was there.” I explained how I and a group of others had been hoping for the widow-in-the-lake sighting.
“I don’t get it,” Channing said, lifting chin. Her eyes were filled with tears. “What was Lana doing there? I mean, how could she drown?”
I told her how it appeared that Lana had been part of an elaborate charade arranged for or with Channing’s host, Gus McKutcheon. “She was planning to make an appearance as the ghost of Mary McKutcheon. When she floated to shore she was strapped into an intricate water jet-pack harness and wearing scuba gear.”
Channing rose and paced across the small kitchen space. “I’ve seen the tourists flying in those things. I thought it would be fun and that I might try it one day. Now, you couldn’t catch me doing that if my life depended on it!” She clamped her hand over her mouth as if to stop the words she’d just utter
ed. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay.” I stood and draped an arm across her back. “So you didn’t know that Gus and Lana were planning this little stunt?”
Channing shook her head vigorously even as she pulled back. “No!” She wiped at her damp eyes. “You’re saying Mr. McKutcheon was part of this?”
“He’s admitted as much to the police.”
“The police?”
I told her how Gus had been asked to go down to the police station to explain his role in the hoax. “I expect he may be facing charges.” It wasn’t like you could go to jail for being stupid or lacking common sense, but a woman had died out there this morning.
“If Mr. McKutcheon goes to jail, what happens to us? We’ll probably all get thrown out of the house. I know it sounds insensitive, but most of us have little money and nowhere else to go.”
I told her not to worry. “I’m no lawyer, but I’m sure all of you will be able to stay. Nobody’s going to throw you out. At worst, Ms. Potter’s death was a terrible accident.” Though I’d wait for the autopsy report before deciding one way or the other whether I really believed my words. Even if Gus McKutcheon had murdered Lana Potter, it might be difficult to prove.
I wasn’t sure I was happy about that, but there was nothing to be done about it. “Besides, if you are forced to leave, you can stay here until you get back on your feet.”
Channing embraced me. “I don’t know how to thank you, Amy.”
“No thanks necessary. We can make it the same arrangement that you have with Gus now, a little work in exchange for room and board. Deal?”
Channing rubbed the tears from her eyes and nodded. “I still don’t understand how Ms. Potter drowned. Why would she agree to go in the lake if she could not swim?”
“Lana became tangled up in the equipment and drowned. Jerry thinks her air hose might have been blocked and maybe her legs got snarled up, too.”
I explained how Lana had also been wearing yards and yards of white fabric. “Between the cloth, the jet pack, and the scuba gear, Jerry and the coroner think Lana probably got herself tangled up, ran out of air and . . .”
Channing’s chest shook. I urged her to sit again and made her a glass of hot tea. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“Did you know Lana well?” I asked, making myself a cup of Darjeeling, too. “Were you close?”
“No. She really kept to herself, you know?”
“Do you know where she came here from? I’m sure she wasn’t local. Does she have any family?”
Channing frowned. “I don’t know. You should ask Mr. McKutcheon.”
“Speaking of Gus, Lana was living at the house with you all, wasn’t she?”
Channing appeared to hesitate, the teacup balanced in her hand. “Yes.”
“Were she and Gus lovers?”
The young woman smiled enigmatically. “You’ll have to talk to Mr. McKutcheon about that, Amy. I stick to my own business. I am a guest in his house. It really isn’t any of my business. Mr. McKutcheon would not be happy if I told stories about him.”
“I get it.” It sounded like Gus scared her a bit. “What about Dominik and Annika?” Her brow creased up and I pressed on. “What do you know about them?”
Her shoulders bobbed. “They seem nice.”
“Did they know each other before coming to Ruby Lake?”
Channing giggled. “They should. They are brother and sister.”
I sat back in the rocker. “I thought they were a couple. You know, boyfriend and girlfriend.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“I don’t know. Silly of me.” When I’d seen them together in the Italian Kitchen, I’d taken them for lovers having a spat. Instead they were brother and sister and I still didn’t know what they’d been arguing about. “And Ross? What was his last name again?”
“O’ Sullivan.”
“Right, O’Sullivan.” I hadn’t known his surname at all. Now that I did, maybe I could do some digging and learn something more about him as well. “He told me he was from Ireland.”
“That’s right.” Channing rubbed her nose. “Near Dublin, I believe.”
I wracked my brain. Why had the word Ireland started bells ringing in my head? “Do you think he or any of the others, Gus, in particular, might have known Lana?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you get the impression that any of your other roommates knew Lana before she came to Ruby Lake?”
The corner of Channing’s lip turned down. “I don’t know, Amy. As I said, I really didn’t get to know Ms. Potter well.” She stood and carried her cup to the sink, gave it a rinse, and set it on the towel to dry out. “Why all the questions?”
“Just curious, I guess.” I smiled in an effort to hide my concern. Why had Lana Potter appeared in the Town of Ruby Lake at about the same time as Gus McKutcheon? Why had she been living in his house? Had it all been for the widow-in-the-lake ruse?
“You should talk to Mr. McKutcheon.”
I would. If and when the police were through with him.
29
I hollered that I was going out.
And ran into Chief Kennedy coming in. The thought raced through my mind that I might duck out the back, but he had seen me. If he wanted me, he could hunt me down, sirens screaming.
So I held my ground as he marched up the walk. “Hello, Jerry.” I held the door open for him and followed him back inside.
“You want to explain this?” Chief Kennedy thrust his cell phone in my face.
I was staring up close and personal at one of the pictures I’d taken of the goat’s grave. “A joke?”
“A joke?” Jerry tilted his head. “What do you mean, a joke?” He planted his hands on his hips. “You think I got time for jokes, Simms?”
I opened my mouth but he wasn’t ready for me to speak.
“I’ve got two dead people”—he held up two fingers—“clogging up my case files. I don’t have time for your jokes.” He was practically snorting like a bull.
“Now, calm down, Jerry. It was really an accident. I mean, not an accident exactly. But I thought I might have found the grave of that dead man—”
Jerry stamped his foot. “Listen to me, Simms. There is no dead man. I’ve got two dead women!”
Customers looked our way. I urged Jerry away from the front door. Channing, her face flushed and eyes red, watched from afar. Riley had disappeared.
“The man I saw, thought I saw, thrown out Gus McKutcheon’s upstairs bedroom window.”
Jerry looked down his nose at me. “And did you find him?”
“No.” I slid back behind the sales counter, putting a little space and a big obstacle between us. “It was a goat,” I said, eyes glued to the floor, voice barely audible.
Jerry loomed over the counter. “A what?”
I glared at him. “A goat.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “A goat, Jerry. It was a dead goat. Are you happy?”
Jerry’s eyes bugged out and he hooted. “That’s rich, Simms. You go looking for a dead man only you can see, and instead you find a goat!”
I felt my face and chest turn crimson. The man was practically braying. “Oh, yeah?” I shot back, though I felt myself sinking back to middle-school mentality. “What about Lana Potter? What about Gus McKutcheon’s stupid, and deadly, attempt to trick everyone?”
Jerry grimaced. “Stupid is right. But if stupid was criminal, I’d be locking up folks left and right.” He pinned me with his eyes, leaving me no doubt who his first arrest would be. “Speaking of which.” He looked at me hard.
“Yes?” I gulped.
“I ought to arrest you for being stupid and for obstruction of justice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded indignantly.
“It means Ed Quince dropped by the police station a short while ago and told me and Officer Reynolds how you’d found his knife in the vicinity of Bessie Hammond’s corpse.” Jerry drove his right fist into his left hand.
“He said he couldn’t sleep and was feeling guilty and wanted to let me know all about it and that he was innocent. He said he wanted to tell me himself before you told me.”
“I really don’t think Ed’s guilty—”
“I don’t give two hoots what you think!” Jerry’s jaw flexed rapidly back and forth. “Stay out of police business!”
“I have every intention of doing just that. I’m simply saying that I do not believe Ed Quince killed Bessie any more than I believe Walter Kimmel did.”
Jerry narrowed his eyes at me. “What’s Kimmel got to do with Bessie Hammond’s murder?”
“N-nothing,” I said quickly. “That’s what I’m saying. Mr. Kimmel’s got nothing to do with Bessie’s murder.”
“You bet he doesn’t. He and Quince both have ironclad alibis.” He pulled off his cap and scratched his head. “Or should I say, nine-iron alibis.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means Kimmel and Quince were playing golf at the time of Bessie Hammond’s murder.”
“So, there were witnesses?”
“Dozens of them,” Jerry said firmly. “Including the other two fellas in their foursome.”
That meant they’d all been lying about church. I cleared my throat. “That’s great, Jerry.” And it was. I hated to think for a minute that either of the sweet old gentlemen had been mixed up in Bessie’s murder. “Don’t you see? That just proves what I’ve been saying. Gus McKutcheon is behind things.” Jerry opened his mouth to retort but I cut him off. “The same as he was behind this whole widow-in-the-lake deadly fiasco.”
“And the dead goat?” Jerry taunted me with his eyes.
That goat really was going to stay with me the rest of my life.
I took a step back, the wheels of my mind turning like the wheels of a NASCAR race car. “C’mon, Jerry. Gus McKutcheon may or may not be responsible for Lana Potter’s death, but if you ask me, the man’s guilty of something. Probably Bessie Hammond’s death.
“Hey”—I snapped my fingers—“maybe Bessie stumbled onto Gus’s plans to pull that widow-in-the-lake hoax!”
“So he broke her neck?” Jerry appeared dubious.
“Sure.” I was pacing now. Surely the two deaths had to be related, being so similar in time and place. “McKutcheon comes back to town, insinuates himself into the local life—”