“She says that I misunderstood his words and that he was acting out a scene from a play. That’s nonsense.”
“She’s hiding the truth to protect herself.” And make Gunnar look guilty. “What does she do when she isn’t rehearsing a play?”
“P.R. work, mostly social media. She handles publicity for the Treadwell Players. She says she’s worked for various clients, but doesn’t say who they are. I looked her up online, but couldn’t find a Maddie or a Madeleine Norton in this area who’s the right age.”
“I’ve seen Madeleine spelled lots of ways. After the first three letters, you can have an E or an A. The name could end in L-E-I-N-E, L-I-N-E, or L-Y-N.”
Gunnar threw up his hands. “I don’t even know for sure that her name is Madeline. It could be Madonna or Medea.”
Or Madison, like Rosana’s assistant. “What does Maddie look like?”
“Around thirty or a little younger. Thin, on the tall side, with brown hair down to her waist.”
Val’s pulse sped up. “She sounds like a woman I met today named Madison. I don’t know her last name, but I’ll find out.”
Before Val visited the chief again, she would verify that the woman Emmett had threatened worked for the Ushers. The waiter put a basket of sliced cornbread on the table. “Your dinners will be ready shortly.”
Val and Gunnar reached for the bread at the same moment, their fingers brushing.
She felt a warmth spread through her, not just because of his touch. For the first time since he told her about his fight with Emmett Flint, she saw a way of deflecting suspicion away from Gunnar. “Your fight with Emmett happened Thursday night. Did you see him with Maddie after that?”
“We had a rehearsal Saturday morning. I didn’t see them together except when they were acting in a scene.”
“Did he have anything to eat or drink that she could have gotten near?”
Gunnar spread butter on his cornbread. “We take turns bringing a box of doughnuts for our mid-morning break. Emmett never ate sweets. He left the theater, picked up a breakfast burrito from the café down the street, and brought it back with him. He got to eat half of it before the rehearsal started again. The rest of his burrito sat on the table in the back hall for the rest of the morning, where anyone could get to it. You have to go through the hall to go to the bathrooms and the dressing rooms.”
Good news. “Maddie could have mashed something into the burrito.”
“She could have. I could have too.” He picked up his cider and eyed it as if he wished the cup contained something stronger. “Don’t jump to the conclusion that Emmett’s breakfast burrito contained whatever killed him. He might have eaten lunch before he collapsed in the parking lot.”
“How long did Saturday’s rehearsal last?”
“Until noon. Emmett wasn’t in the last scene that was rehearsed. He could have left earlier.”
An image of Emmett in the parking lot, looking like Granddad, flashed into Val’s mind. “Would you ask the other cast members if they saw him made up like an old man before he left or if he told them where he was going after the rehearsal. I’d like to know when and where he donned his disguise.” Without mentioning her grandfather, Val told Gunnar what she’d said to the chief earlier about Emmett’s possible impersonation of Rick Usher.
Gunnar looked almost as skeptical as the chief had. “Even if Emmett impersonated an author, what did that have to do with his death?”
“Possibly nothing, but I’d like to rule out any connection between the impersonation and his death.” To make sure Granddad hadn’t put himself in danger by following in Emmett’s footsteps.
Chapter 9
The waiter arrived with their dinners. Val tested the salmon sitting on top of her salad. Well seasoned, not overcooked. After a few bites, she pushed the lettuce around her plate. She was tempted to let Gunnar know what her grandfather had done. But if Granddad found out she’d blabbed, he might not tell her anything else about his dealings with the Ushers.
Gunnar had apparently lost his usual hearty appetite, leaving one of his sliders untouched. “Even if the police determine that Emmett OD’d on meds after he left the rehearsal, I’m not off the hook. I went home from the rehearsal and worked on the forensic accounting contract all afternoon. Nobody in the neighborhood saw me. Nobody talked to me on the phone until the director called to tell me Emmett was dead. I have no alibi.” He drank down half a glass of water. “I’d better talk to a lawyer.”
“Good idea.” She didn’t want to tell him that Chief Yardley agreed. Something had been gnawing at the back of her mind ever since she talked to the chief. She might as well put it on the table. “Why didn’t you tell me last night about the fight you had with Emmett?”
He took a deep breath and released it. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react and didn’t see any reason to spoil the evening.”
Did that mean he didn’t trust her to stick with him when he was in trouble? How many other things had he kept from her? A lot when they first met, but he’d justified it then because his job demanded it. He couldn’t use that excuse now. If they couldn’t confide in and depend on each other, they didn’t have a bright future together. A subject for another day. Right now, Gunnar needed support and she’d give it.
She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry about your fight with Emmett. As you said, he picked fights with a lot of people. The police will find more likely suspects than you to accuse. Maddie is—” She broke off as a woman’s voice drifted toward her from the entrance to the back room.
She didn’t need to look behind her to know who the woman was—the fast talker who’d scoped out the café, planning to transform it into a sportswear boutique.
“Why don’t we sit in the last booth?” the woman said. “More privacy.”
She and her male companion passed the booth, too engrossed in each other to notice Val and Gunnar. Val could see only the backs of their heads, but she’d wager her tarte Tatin pan that the man was the club manager.
She crunched down on a romaine leaf and looked at the mirror on the far wall. It reflected the blonde and the man with her. Sure enough, the manager. They slid into the booth in the corner. Would they come to the tavern to talk about transforming the café into a clothing boutique? Hardly. They could easily do that in the manager’s office at the club.
She cut off a larger piece of salmon, forked it into her mouth, and checked the ceiling mirror above the corner booth. The manager and the blonde were holding hands across the table. They wouldn’t want to do that at the club, where his wife and teenage children often came to exercise.
Obviously, something besides the prospect of increased revenue was motivating the manager to swap out the café for a boutique. Even if Val hired Irene and doubled the café’s revenues, it still might close. What could she do to save it?
“Earth to Val,” Gunnar said. “I can see the wheels turning in your head. What’s on your mind?”
“Blackmail.” She speared a piece of red pepper with her fork. “I was tempted to try it, but there are a lot of reasons not to. A marriage could break up over it. I probably wouldn’t get what I want anyway. And if I did, I’d have trouble living with myself.”
“Also you might not live long. Blackmailers have a lower than average life expectancy. Who was your victim going to be?”
“The club manager.” She told Gunnar about the manager’s plans for the café and about his arrival in the tavern with the woman who’d take over the space to sell sportswear. “I’d hoped to change his mind by proving the café could bring in more money, but now I know something besides money may decide the issue.”
“Blackmail occurred to you because the manager’s married?” At Val’s nod, Gunnar continued, “Don’t look so glum. He may have personal reasons for pushing a clothing boutique, but the club owners probably have final say. You can go over his head and plead your case if you can show the café can make more money than a clothing concession. How ar
e you going to wring more money from the café before the contract is up?”
“Irene Pritchard suggested delivering lunches in town and keeping the café open longer hours.” Val gave him the details of Irene’s proposal.
“You talked about hiring an assistant to free up your time. To help your grandfather with his cookbook. To go away with me for Valentine’s Day. Irene’s plan doesn’t give you that. Why don’t you make her a counteroffer that gives you what you want? More revenue from the café and free time for yourself. Figure out how she can help you get that and how you can help her do what she wants.”
Gunnar always suggested compromises. Val liked that trait, especially in someone she might someday live with. But was compromise possible with Irene? “Our goals aren’t compatible. Irene wants to take over the café from me. She’s always held it against me that I got the contract to manage it a year ago when she assumed she’d win it. And she expected to be the Treadwell Gazette recipe columnist until Granddad edged her out for that. Hiring her is like inviting the fox into the chicken coop.”
“Didn’t she give you information that helped solve the murder last summer?”
“Eventually. But first she insinuated that Granddad was the killer.”
Gunnar drank up his water. “If someone else went to you with the same proposal Irene had, would you accept it?”
Easy question. “I’d jump at the chance to hire anybody with her background.”
“Structure the deal so she has a vested interest in your success. The first step is to figure out what she really wants. What motivated her to approach you after all the bad blood between you?”
Val cradled her mug of cider, reviewing what Irene had said today and in previous conversations when she’d shown a softer side. Today she had led up to what mattered most. “I think she wants a job for her son, Jeremy.”
“Then she’ll make concessions in what she asked for herself to get what she wants for him.” Gunnar looked at his watch and motioned to the waiter for a check. “I don’t mean to rush you, but if you finish eating in the next five minutes, I’ll have time to drive you home before heading to the rehearsal.”
She put her fork down. “I’m done. Would you mind running me by Bethany’s house instead? I’d like to hear her take on Irene’s proposal.”
Val phoned Bethany from Gunnar’s car to make sure she was home and then called her grandfather. Still at the pizza restaurant with his friend, he said he’d pick her up at Bethany’s house on his way back home.
* * *
Ringing Bethany’s doorbell touched off excited barks from inside the tiny bungalow. Val was surprised to hear barking at two different pitches, like a duet between Bethany’s spaniel, the alto, and another dog, the baritone. Odd that Bethany hadn’t mentioned getting a companion for Muffin, the spoiled spaniel.
Bethany opened the door, holding a Labrador retriever by the collar. A beautiful dog. The Lab’s coloring reminded Val of vanilla ice cream with caramel topping. Bethany’s reddish-blond cocker spaniel swished his tail furiously and leapt for joy at the sight of a visitor. The bigger dog’s tail barely twitched.
Val eyed him. “Hey, Bethany. You have a new addition to your household?”
“I’m dog-sitting for the neighbor across the street. Come on in. He won’t bite you.”
Val took off her gloves and bent down to pet the spaniel. “Hiya, Muffin. Are you feeling neglected now that you aren’t an only child?”
“She is. Poor Muffin doesn’t know this is only temporary. I hope she forgives me when Styx goes back home. Lie down, Styx.” Bethany pointed to the floor.
The Lab complied, after selecting a spot near the heating vent.
Val hung her parka on the clothes tree near the door. “Is that his name because he chewed on sticks when he was a puppy?”
“It’s spelled S-T-Y-X, like the mythological river the soul crosses when it dies. My neighbor trained him to be a human remains detection dog, so the name fits.”
“I never met a cadaver dog before.” Val forged a path through a cramped living room that screamed “soft and round” from its pouf valences to its floor pillows. Muffin leaped onto the overstuffed emerald sofa decorated with wisps of light hair. No telling who’d left them behind since Muffin’s hair and Bethany’s matched so well. If Val sat on the sofa, she’d take home a collection of hair on her black slacks. She perched instead on a spherical leather hassock. “Does Styx have a steady job?”
“He’s on a volunteer list, along with my neighbor Lisa. She’s his handler. If the police or sheriffs suspect a body is hidden or buried, Lisa takes Styx to the area so he can sniff around. He can tell the difference between an animal carcass and a human one.” Bethany plopped on the sofa. “Hey, maybe you should get a dog and put him through the training course. With your habit of running into dead bodies, a dog like that would come in handy.”
“I don’t expect to find any more bodies.” Val crossed her legs, which made the hassock start tipping. She uncrossed them and kept both feet on the floor. “I came here to tell you what’s going on with the café.”
Bethany reacted with indignation to the news that the café might close to make room for a boutique. “The club members want to eat and drink when they finish exercising, not buy clothes. The manager’s crazy.”
Crazy in love maybe. “Irene Pritchard wants me to hire her. She gave me some ideas for making the café more profitable.” Val explained them to Bethany and asked for her opinion.
“I’m not sure you’d make much on delivering lunches, but keeping the café open in the evening might work, especially if Irene made ready-to-go meals for the members to take with them. Then they wouldn’t have to stop at the supermarket on their way home.”
Val sat forward on the hassock. “That’s a really good idea. We could offer food that’s easy to transport and reheat.”
“When Irene ran the tea shop in Bayport, she made delicious meat pies and pastries with cheese and vegetables. Add a salad and a dessert to those, and you’d have a good dinner.”
The doorbell rang, and both dogs went into a barking chorus.
Val stood up. “It’s probably my grandfather, here to drive me home.”
“You get the door.” Bethany went over to the Labrador retriever. “I’ll hold Styx so he doesn’t escape and run back to his own house.”
“Don’t mention the café contract to Granddad. I don’t want him to worry about it.” Val opened the door to her grandfather. “Come in while I put on my coat.”
“Hi, Mr. Myer.” Bethany held the Lab firmly.
“Good to see you, Bethany.” He bent down to pet Muffin. “I remember this spaniel. That big fella’s new, isn’t he?”
“New to my house. I’m dog-sitting him. His name is Styx.”
Granddad went over to the Lab and petted him. Bethany told him about the dog’s training. Judging by the number of questions he asked, the subject of human remains detection fascinated him. Val hustled him out when he ran out of questions.
As he pulled his Buick away from the curb, she said, “Irene Pritchard came by the café today. Did you suggest she talk to me about a job?”
“I said you needed help in the café. She’s the one person in town you can hire quickly so you can work on my cookbook.”
“Did you forget she badmouthed both of us? She practically accused you of poisoning your dinner guest.”
He shrugged. “She wasn’t always so cranky. Losing her tea shop a year ago turned her sour. I know how she felt—the same way I did when my last business folded. Too old to do anything useful.”
Now that Granddad had achieved status as a newspaper columnist and a budding detective, he was less crotchety than he’d been when Val first moved in with him. Perhaps Irene would undergo a similar transformation and not drive away café customers. “We added to her woes. I got the café contract she expected and you edged her out as the recipe columnist.” Was Granddad finally feeling a touch of guilt for winning that job unfairly?
“She’d treat us better if you’d help her out.”
Or she might seize her chance to take revenge. Val would have to stay alert for signs of Irene’s intentions.
As Granddad turned onto their street, she said, “You take medicine for your high blood pressure, don’t you?”
“A beta blocker. I’ve taken it for ten years. Why are you asking?”
“From what the chief told me, the man who collapsed in the mall parking lot on Saturday might have taken drugs that lowered his blood pressure too much. How common is high blood pressure?”
“My doctor said half the men in their late fifties have it and two-thirds of people over sixty-five. Your grandmother did.”
And Grandma had died of a stroke, possibly tied to her blood pressure. With the prevalence of blood pressure problems, a lot of people would have medicine to treat it in their homes. Someone who wanted to collect enough of that medicine for an overdose wouldn’t necessarily need a prescription for it, just access to other people’s meds. Drop in on older family members or neighbors, check their medicine cabinets, and collect a few pills.
When they went inside, Val asked Granddad to join her in the kitchen for dessert and was surprised when he turned her down.
“Ned and I had dessert pizza,” he said. “They put apple pie filling on top of a thin crust. It tasted pretty good, especially with vanilla ice cream on it.” He went straight from the door to his bedroom at the end of the hall.
Val headed for the kitchen, put the kettle on, and reached into the cookie jar. Good. Granddad hadn’t eaten all the leftover chocolate chunk cookies. She carried the cookies and a cup of peppermint tea to the front of the house. As she crossed the sitting room to the study, she heard him talking on the hall phone.
“How about nine thirty?” he said.
When he saw her, his eyes widened. He cupped his hand around his mouth, muffled his voice, and turned his back to her.
What was he saying that he didn’t want her to hear? It sounded as if he was making an appointment. If he expected something to do something at nine thirty tonight, she’d find out soon enough what it was.
The Tell-Tale Tarte Page 8