Past Due for Murder

by Victoria Gilbert

  “Not what you expected?” Kurt slid his keys into his jacket pocket and opened his car door. “I’ll bet you pictured a rustic log cabin or something along those lines.”

  “I guess I did,” I said as I climbed out of the Jaguar.

  Kurt met me at my car door. “This house was built in the late forties, right after the war. It’s had a few upgrades since then, like the siding and a new roof.”

  I turned to stare up into his face. “I’m guessing you’ve helped her with that, and some other things, over the years?”

  He shrugged. “Army pensions and social security don’t stretch very far these days.”

  “Careful.” I wagged a finger at him. “I might actually believe you have a heart.”

  Kurt laughed and laid his hand over his chest. “Alas, like the Tin Man, I assure you I am quite hollow.”

  “But the Tin Man proved,” I said, as we made our way to Mary Gardener’s front door, “that he didn’t actually require a heart to have a heart.”

  “Yes, he did, didn’t he?” Kurt’s blue eyes sparkled as he glanced down at me. “All right, let’s see what Mary has to say today. I never know what stories she’s likely to tell, which does at least keep things interesting.”

  The doorknob turned easily in Kurt’s hand. This didn’t surprise me. My aunt had always left her doors unlocked until I’d recently badgered her into changing her ways.

  I followed Kurt into the house. The front door opened directly onto a small living room. Paneled in polished wood, its dark walls were enlivened by windows framed with white lace curtains and numerous pictures of flowers. Examining one of the paintings, I narrowed my eyes. This was not some amateur piece picked up at a flea market.

  “Did you give her these paintings as well?” I asked.

  Kurt paused in an archway leading to what looked like the kitchen and glanced at me over his shoulder. “Several of them, yes. They aren’t masterpieces—just things I bought off professional artists because I thought Mary might like them.”

  “They’re lovely,” I said, my sweeping gaze taking in more of the paintings.

  As I trailed him into the other room, I heard him tell someone, “Don’t get up.”

  The kitchen surprised me once again. It was unabashedly modern and boasted robin’s-egg-blue solid surface countertops that contrasted beautifully with gleaming stainless appliances and pale-yellow walls.

  Studying his broad back as he bent over the woman sitting in a wooden rocker beside a built-in electric fireplace, I mulled over the very likely possibility that Kurt had paid for all of the upgrades to Mary Gardener’s modest home.

  “Mary, may I introduce Amy Webber?” Kurt straightened and stepped aside, motioning toward me. “She’s the current library director in Taylorsford.”

  The seated woman was so tiny that her feet did not touch the floor. Although her face was as lined and grooved as a walnut shell, her hazel eyes sparkled as brightly as water in a shallow brook. “Hello, my dear,” she said in a reedy voice. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.” She held out one arthritis-twisted hand.

  I crossed to her and clasped her knobby fingers firmly. “Very nice to meet you as well, Mrs. Gardener.”

  “Please, call me Mary.” The old woman squeezed my hand in a surprisingly strong grip while tossing back the wool blanket covering her legs with her other hand. “Karl, can you please get this thing off me? I’m about to roast.”

  For a moment, I thought that Mary had forgotten who was in the room, then realized my error. Naturally, Mary Gardener would’ve known Kurt by his original name of Karl Klass when she met him at the orphanage back in the late 1950s.

  Her memory is better than yours, it seems.

  “But weren’t there supposed to be two guests?” Mary asked, proving my point. She motioned toward one of the counters, which held a crystal plate filled with sugar cookies and four glasses of lemonade.

  Kurt lifted the blanket and draped it over the back of the rocking chair. “I’m sorry, Mary. Professor Raymond couldn’t make it today. But I promise to bring her another time.”

  “That’s fine. Just means I get to see you again sooner.” Mary offered Kurt a smile that lit up her wizened face. “Now Karl—show some manners. Pull up a chair from the kitchen table so Amy can sit herself down. After that you can serve the cookies and lemonade.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Kurt’s face and tone were both humble. But he gave me a wink as he slid a chair over to where I stood.

  “Amy, Karl has asked me to share some local stories. I hope you’ll allow me to tell the tale of the mountain lights. That’s the one I thought the professor would want to hear.”

  “That will be perfect,” I replied, taking a seat. “I have to ask, though—do you mind if I record you? It would be for the town archives. We like to collect local stories from the people who know them best.”

  Mary waved her hand. “Laws no, I don’t mind. As long as I never have to listen to it. Don’t much care for the sound of my own voice these days. It’s all thin and whiny, like a weasel caught in a trap.”

  I smiled as I extracted my small voice recorder from my purse. “I promise I won’t make you listen if you don’t want to.”

  Mary settled back in her chair, crossing her hands one over the other in her lap.

  “Go ahead, Mary,” Kurt said, before grabbing a TV tray and setting it up between his chair and mine. “I’ll play waiter while you talk.”

  “All right then.” Mary fixed her bright gaze on me. “Well, I’m sure you’ve heard this story before, Amy, but listen close—most of what you’ve been told is nothing but a shadow of the tale, spun by those who don’t know the truth.”

  “But you do?” I asked, after thanking Kurt for the drink and the two cookies he’d set on a napkin on the tray beside me.

  “Yes, I do. Now, you’ve heard how it was May Day …”

  Mary spun her tale, mesmerizing me to the point that I didn’t even take one sip of my lemonade. Her story followed the general outline of what I’d heard before but included many more details.

  “Wait,” I said at one point. “You’re saying one of the girls was related to Delbert Frye?”

  “Yes indeed. His great-great-aunt Ada Frye. She was his great-grandfather’s sister and was only eighteen when she disappeared. The Frye family has always sworn she just ran away with her friend, Violet Greyson, but …” Mary tented her fingers and narrowed her eyes. “I think they were lured away by the Folk.”

  “To dance forever in the hall of the Mountain King?” Kurt took a sip of lemonade, but the rim of the glass couldn’t hide his smile.

  “Pshaw, Karl. There you go, making fun again. I bet you wouldn’t be so high and mighty if you were to catch a strain of that unearthly music rising up from under the hills.”

  I scooted forward in my chair. “You’ve heard it?”

  “Laws yes, child.” Mary tipped her head. “Times are I can hear it still.”

  “On the other hand,” Kurt said, stretching his long legs out in front of him, “there is another, more reasonable explanation. The Frye girl didn’t want to marry the man her family had chosen for her, which I can understand. From what I hear, he was a bit of a brute.”

  “That’s true enough and may have been why she ran off. But why did she never return? Can you answer that one for me, young man?”

  I almost giggled at the thought of Kurt being called a young man, as well as at the bemused look on his face, but took a long swallow of my lemonade instead.

  Kurt shrugged. “She and her friend probably settled in another town, changed their names, and lived happily ever after. Why should she have come back here? All those bad memories …”

  Mary cast him a sharp look. “Didn’t keep you away.”

  I widened my eyes as I turned off the recorder and slipped it back into my purse. Mary might’ve been over ninety, but she was no one’s fool. She’d punctured Kurt’s ironclad air of invulnerability with one short phrase.

/>   Of course, Kurt, being Kurt, instantly composed his face and came back with a quip. “Only for you.”

  She waved him off. “Always such a charmer. Heaven knows why you’re still single.”

  Kurt shot me a swift glance before replying. “No one could match up to your finer qualities, Mary. My first love.” He bent forward in a gallant bow.

  Mary snorted. “Don’t you believe him, Amy. He’s always been a rascal. Probably broke as many hearts as he captured. Although”—a beatific smile lit up her wrinkled face—“I must confess he’s always been a dear to me.”

  I glanced over at Kurt, who was, of all things, blushing slightly. “As he should be.”

  “Now he wouldn’t tell anyone this, but he’s helped me out quite a bit over the years. Kept me in this house—sending in nurses and handymen and cleaning ladies and such. And all because I was a little bit nice to him back when he was young.”

  “More than a bit,” Kurt said gruffly. “You were the only one who treated me like a human being; like someone with actual feelings. Well, you and then later Paul Dassin.”

  “Paul was a good man, though I know many around here didn’t care for him. They always called him an outsider, just like me.” Mary fixed her gaze on my face. “I understand you’re dating his great-nephew.”

  Does nothing get by this woman? I side-eyed Kurt. “Yes. Richard Muir. He inherited Paul’s house.”

  “The old Cooper place.” Mary brushed a loose strand of her gray hair away from her face. “I was happy to hear that poor Eleanora Cooper had finally been cleared of suspicion in her husband’s death. You had a hand in that, I’m told.”

  “Yes, last summer.” I squirmed in my chair. Mary Gardener seemed to know an awful lot. I didn’t mind her knowing; it was the fact that Kurt Kendrick had obviously seen fit to share so much information about me, as well as Richard, that unnerved me.

  As if we really do mean something to him, I thought, casting him a questioning glance.

  “She was an outsider too,” Mary murmured. Looking at Kurt, she raised her voice. “Oh, by the way, I wonder if you could do me a favor before you leave today.”

  “Certainly,” Kurt replied. “Whatever you need.”

  “Carry that jug out to the compost heap.” Mary pointed toward the sink. “The one filled with peelings and coffee grounds. I usually take it out myself, but my rheumatism is acting up today.”

  “That’s no problem.” Kurt rose to his feet. “But you do have a garbage disposal, you know.”

  Mary muttered something about “newfangled gadgets” and plucked at the faded material of her floral print cotton housedress.

  Kurt shook his head. “What am I going to do with you? All right, I’ll take care of that right away. Amy, you stay and talk. I’m sure Mary appreciates the company.”

  “You’ve known him a long time,” I said, after he had grabbed the jug and exited through the kitchen door.

  Mary smiled. “Yes, indeed. Almost sixty years, I guess it is now.” She tipped her head. With her bright eyes and her thin hair pulled into a knob of a bun on top of her head, she reminded me of some inquisitive bird. “You’re Lydia Litton’s niece, aren’t you? Strange, you don’t look a thing like her.”

  “I am her niece, although it’s Lydia Talbot. She married Andrew Talbot, you know. And you’re right, I don’t take after her. I resemble my mom, Lydia’s younger sister, Deborah.”

  “Of course, what was I thinking? Lydia married that artist, and Debbie moved away …” Mary closed her eyes for a moment. “I only saw your mother when she was a little slip of a thing. But now that you mention it, I do recall she had dark eyes and hair, like her grandmother.” Mary’s eyes fluttered open. “That’s why you look familiar. You’re the spitting image of Rose Baker Litton.”

  I made a face, as I always did when I was compared to my great-grandmother.

  Mary eyed me with interest. “Don’t much care for that? Can’t say I blame you. Rose was not near as sweet as her name.”

  “No, apparently not,” I said, thinking about my great-grandmother’s involvement in the death of Eleanora Cooper. “Did you know her well?”

  “Laws no. What would a fine lady such as her have to do with the likes of me? No, I only knew her by sight, and reputation. She liked her money, that I do know. Didn’t approve of Paul Dassin turning over land to the town, and for an orphanage no less. Guess she was probably happy when they tore it down after all those people died.”

  “At first, maybe,” I said, considering how the deaths of the children and others at the orphanage had revealed a secret that had contributed to Great-Grandmother Rose’s mental decline. “Speaking of money, you said something a little while ago about a treasure connected to the mountain lights? I’ve never heard anything about that before.”

  “Oh yes, supposedly there was gold collected by the Folk.” Mary stared over my shoulder, her eyes clouding as if she were peering into another realm. “At least I’ve heard tales about people around here searching for some such thing. Seems to get all muddled up in the story about those lost girls, like maybe that’s what they were actually doing up here in the mountains.” She huffed and blinked the shadows from her eyes. “As if such gold could be carried away. Would turn to dust if you tried, you know.”

  “But that never stops anyone from searching, I bet. People always want to believe in hidden treasure.” I stood and pointed at Mary’s empty glass. “Would you care for more lemonade?”

  “No thank you, my dear. But please, help yourself.”

  I crossed to the counter to refill my tumbler from the pressed-glass pitcher, taking the opportunity to sneak another cookie. Between bites, I garnered a promise from Mary to relate more stories for the archives whenever I chose to visit.

  Kurt shoved open the side door so hard it banged back against the wall. “Sorry,” he said as he set down the empty jug and grabbed my arm, forcing me to abandon my glass.

  “Everything all right?” Mary asked.

  “Yes, just used that rake in the shed to tidy up the compost pile while I was at it,” he replied, pulling me to the other side of the kitchen.

  “What is it?” I mumbled through a mouthful of cookie.

  “I saw something out there, on the edge of the woods.” Kurt kept his voice low. “Can you call Brad Tucker and tell him to get out here right away?”

  “Sure,” I whispered, “but what did you see?”

  “A footprint, and not from Mary’s galoshes.” Kurt narrowed his eyes. “This imprint included toes.”

  “So possibly a woman’s bare foot?”

  “Or a child’s. It is rather small, but I suppose a petite woman’s foot could have made that mark.”

  “It could’ve been Lacey Jacobs.” I gnawed the inside of my cheek. “If she lost her shoes …”

  “Which is why I believe the authorities need to be alerted. They should scour this area.” Kurt ran one hand through his thick white hair. “If the girl’s wandering around barefoot, she could be in real danger.”

  I let fly a swear word that made Mary straighten in her chair.

  “Now, Amy,” she said. “I’d prefer not to hear that sort of thing in my house.”

  I apologized profusely as I crossed the room to clasp her hand. “I’m also sorry to say that I must leave rather abruptly. It’s been such a pleasure to meet you,” I added, my fingers reaching for the cell phone in my pocket. “I’ll come back soon.”

  “You are welcome anytime, young lady. Just see that you leave that language at home.” Mary shook one bony finger at me.

  I swallowed and nodded. “Sure thing. Bye now.” I fled the kitchen and headed out the front door, pausing on the porch to punch in the number for the sheriff’s office.

  Kurt was right—we had to alert the authorities about his find as soon as possible. Because if what we suspected was true, we might have stumbled over the best clue to Lacey’s current whereabouts.

  And she might be in worse shape than any of us had imag
ined.

  Chapter Six

  By that evening, I was in no mood to be sociable. Not only had I been pulled into yet another criminal investigation, I’d also received only two texts from Richard since our phone call Friday night.

  My aunt was not sympathetic. “In my day, we often went a week without any communication with our friends, especially if they were out of town. There was no such thing as texts or emails, and long-distance phone calls were expensive. It didn’t mean that people were no longer interested in us. Even now, Hugh and I don’t talk every day.” Aunt Lydia pointed a cake knife at me. “Now, cheer up—we have guests.”

  I leaned back against one of the butcher-block kitchen counters. It was fine for her to talk about her relationship with art expert Hugh Chen, whom she’d been dating for several months, but they were both older. Surely they had different expectations. Although, to be fair, I told myself, that’s probably just showing your age bias. I shook my head and stared morosely at the cake she was slicing. Three tiers of delicate yellow cake layered and topped with fluffy white icing and flakes of fresh coconut, it normally would have made my mouth water. But that evening I was fighting off nausea, partially due to exhaustion. Since Kurt had elected to stay with Mary after Brad questioned her, I’d had to wait for one of the deputies to drive me back. Starving by the time I’d gotten home, I’d scarfed down—far too quickly—a plate of leftovers from the dinner Aunt Lydia had prepared for her close friends Walt Adams and Zelda Shoemaker. Not the best choice for my already nervous stomach.

  “It just seems odd. Richard is usually so attentive.” I clutched my coffee mug to my chest.

  “You mean he spoils you.” Aunt Lydia looked over at me, her blue eyes narrowed in disapproval. “Really, Amy. The man is helping out his family. He can’t drop everything to soothe your fragile ego.”

  “Should’ve known you’d take his side,” I muttered, staring down at the stains inside my empty mug. The streaks made the shape of a heart. It wasn’t tea leaves, but I hoped it was a good sign. “Anyway, you’re right. Whatever is going on, I shouldn’t take it out on you, or our guests.”