by Ann Cook
Weston Stone walked with Brandy to the door. “My grandmother wants to have a grave side ceremony as soon as the Sheriff’s Office finishes with the remains,” he said quietly. “She wants you there, and she’s asking the Able family as well. She thinks I should get to know them.”
As he opened the door into the hallway, Brandy paused. “I’ve developed a very real interest in your mother. It goes beyond my newspaper story.” She said. “I plan to find out what did happen to her.”
He nodded, his mouth grim. Brandy had the peculiar sensation that she was looking into the dark eyes of Brookfield Able. “I don’t like to say this in front of her,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, “but my father may have murdered my mother. He had a motive, and she was buried on his property. It doesn’t make me feel particularly friendly toward the Ables.”
Brandy remembered Brookfield’s appointment at the house with someone that fatal afternoon. It could have been with Eva. She turned without responding and the door closed behind her.
TWENTY–ONE
When Brandy stepped out onto the retirement home verandah, the misty air had cleared. One reporter had gone, but the man from the Commercial still lingered on the porch swing. He signaled to her, but she only smiled, waved, and hurried down the front steps. The Sheriff’s Office would brief him soon enough.
Nothing to do but call John who would have to break the news to Sylvania. When she stopped at the Beacon at five– thirty, she spotted Mr. Tyler’s Chevrolet at the curb. Old war horse, she thought. On a late Saturday afternoon he ought to be relaxing. When she poked her head into his office, he looked up from some copy, removed his horn–rimmed glasses, rubbed his eyes, and settled them again over the thin bridge of his nose.
“Must be a mirage,” he said. “You haven’t been in the office in so long I’d forgotten what you looked like.” He glanced down at the print–out on his desk and sighed. “Fortunately the regular reporter for city news is still working.”
“I have until the end of the day Monday,” she said. “You’ll have a terrific feature.”
In the editorial room she sat at her computer, but not to write——not yet. She wanted a quiet place to think. A bizarre theory had begun to form, then a plan, its outlines blurry like shapes in the fog. After a few minutes it took a firmer shape. She pulled out her pad and scribbled a few notes, found herself doodling a tire iron in the margin, then a dress with a wide belt and buttons down the front.
Her thoughts focused on the sequence of events that led to and followed the murder of Eva Stone: her unexpected appearance at the party, Ace’s conversation with her, the flat tire, Ace’s presence, Brookfield’s arrival, the bell that clanged a death knell, Lily Mae Brown’s account, Grace’s leaving and Blackthorne’s arriving, the long search in the water, the bougainvillea hedge, and the new complication of the baby. She nodded her head decisively.
“Makes sense,” she said under her breath.
A discount store would have what she needed. She would make the call to John, another to a friend who was a home economics teacher, and then do some shopping. She reached for the phone.
When she called John’s trailer, instantly she recognized the lilting, little girl voice that answered. Brandy took comfort from the fact that she heard others in the background. “Oh, you’re that reporter,” the voice said, the emphasis disdainful. “John’s coming home with us now.”
Brandy pictured Sharon draped over his kitchen counter in something filmy and expensive, maybe draped around John himself. “Tell him I’ve got important news,” she said between her teeth.
“I’ll take it.” John’s voice now. “Doctor doesn’t want me driving yet. I’m going over to my folks for dinner. What’s up?”
“You may want to share this with your dad. All the Ables will know soon enough. Mrs. Stone had something startling to say.” John listened silently. She imagined he rubbed his forehead when she came to the part about Weston Stone.
“I’ll talk to Aunt Sylvania,” he said when Brandy had finished. “But I don’t want to break the news over the phone. You better be there. I’ll arrange for us to meet her after church tomorrow. The Congregational Church. She never misses a Sunday service. Maybe we can use the minister’s study.” He paused.” And I’m sure we’ll all show our respect by going to the graveside service.”
Maybe Sharon couldn’t get too intimate with John while his folks were there, although Mrs. Able seemed to be as much of a marriage promoter as Brandy’s own mother. Pushing aside that bleak thought, she dialed Mrs. Brewster, the home ec teacher who often sewed for Brandy’s mother and herself. On that first day at Sylvania’s, if Brandy hadn’t made a favorable impression in Mrs. Brewster’s apricot–colored frock, the fault was not in the dress. Brandy arranged to stop by Mrs. Brewster’s house before supper. Then she made a final call to her mother who, after all, deserved some consideration. Only this morning she had pulled her daughter out of a garage filled with carbon monoxide.
“I’ll be late for supper,” Brandy said when Mrs. O’Bannon answered. “Not to worry. Just need to run a few errands and make a stop at Mrs. Brewster’s about a dress, okay?”
Mrs. O’Bannon’s querulous tone had reasserted itself. “Mack’s been trying to reach you again. I didn’t know you’d be at the office.”
“I won’t be now. I’ll give him a call when I get home. This craziness is almost over. Did I ever thank you for your heroics this morning?”
Mrs. O’Bannon paused, then seemed to remember a current TV commercial. “That’s what mothers do,” she said.
Brandy smiled. “Feed Meg for me, please. And Mother? Not something on the hibachi tonight.”
At the nearest fabric outlet she bought a dress pattern and some cotton material, then shopped at a discount jewelry counter. Back in her Chevrolet hatchback, she had almost reached the dressmaker’s house beyond the city limits when she noticed a faded blue sedan in her rear view mirror. When she slowed, it did. When she turned, it turned. At first she thought it might be a plain clothes escort. Detective Morris had warned her not to go out alone. Maybe he had someone checking on her. But the scruffy paint job didn’t look official.
Her pulse raced. The car definitely didn’t fit into her scheme. Did its driver write the phony note? Or did she have more than one enemy?
She turned into an alley that ran the length of the block. The sedan swerved in behind her, far enough in the rear that she could-n’t tell if the figure behind the wheel was male or female. Accelerating, she skimmed around the corner of the next street, ducked into another alley, and pulled up at Mrs. Brewster’s back gate. The other car had sped past the second alley, but she could hear it turning around at the end of the block. The driver must know where she had gone.
Brandy grabbed her packages, leapt out of her car, bolted through the back yard, and pounded at the kitchen door. In the alley behind her a car door slammed. And then she heard the shuffle of slippered feet on the kitchen tile and the door opened.
“Gracious,” said Mrs. Brewster as Brandy pushed her way in. “What on earth’s the matter?”
“Can’t explain now,” Brandy gasped, banging the door closed behind her and forcing the metal lock forward. She flopped into a chair by the kitchen table and steadied her hands by holding more tightly to her package. “It has to do with a story I’m working on.”
“For the Tavares Beacon?” the older woman asked, raising her eyebrows.
Brandy nodded. In a minute she rose and peered out the back window. No one was there, at least no one that she could see. Calmer now, she took the pattern and fabric out of the paper bag and handed them to the startled Mrs. Brewster, a matronly figure with gray hair and round cheeks, still staring at Brandy.
“I’ll come in the bedroom in a minute,” Brandy said, “so you can look at the pattern on me. First, I’d like to borrow the phone.”
After Mrs. Brewster had disappeared into the adjoining room, Brandy dialed the Sheriff’s Office. Detective Morris was n
ot in, but she left him a message and then asked the dispatcher for Steve Able. In a low voice she gave Mrs. Brewster’s address. “I need an escort home. Deputy Able knows about an attack on me last night.” She was glad to hear Steve was on duty. The desk sergeant promised a squad car in half an hour.
Relieved, Brandy joined Mrs. Brewster in the bedroom and stood immobile on a small stool while the seamstress adjusted the pattern to Brandy’s measurements. “It’s awfully short notice,” the older woman complained, taking a straight pin out of her mouth.
“If you can cut the dress out tomorrow, I’ll pop by late tomorrow for a quick fitting. It doesn’t have to be your usual perfect job. I’ll pay extra if you finish it by Monday, say late morning.”
In the living room Brandy watched though the venetian blinds as Steve’s patrol car pulled up. When she slid into the passenger seat beside Steve a few minutes later, he glanced at her, wary.
“Thanks, Steve,” she said. “My car’s in the alley behind the house. Detective Morris warned me to be careful. Someone followed me here, and I need your expertise.”
“Hold on.” He stepped out of the car, and Brandy waited while he circled the house, then slipped again under the wheel. “Whoever it was is gone now.”
Brandy dropped her voice. “I want to prove a theory about the murder of Eva Stone.” He frowned. “I want the Sheriff’s Office to know what I’m doing,” she added quickly.
Steve grunted, non–committal.
Carefully, she explained her scheme.
“I’m a sworn officer,” he said. “I got to be careful. But if you need support, better me than John. He’s a bit overworked in the rescue business. Maybe you ought to find a less dangerous career.”
He was beginning to sound like Mack. “My plan could work.”
The creases deepened on his forehead. “If I don’t cooperate, I suppose you’ll go to an electronic store for the equipment.” He shrugged. “I’ll get the stuff to you tomorrow and explain how to use it. It doesn’t belong to the Sheriff’s Office. It’s mine.”
“Thanks.” Right on, she thought——the first steps of her grand plan completed.
Steve drove into the alley, and Brandy opened the cruiser door. He shook his head. “I hope to hell you know what you’re doing. You oughtn’t to try it alone. I’m off duty Monday afternoon. I’ll ride shotgun.” On her drive home Steve followed in his cruiser. Brandy saw nothing more of the battered blue car.
When she let herself into the kitchen, she spotted her mother dropping the living room curtain back into place at the front window. “Sheriff’s Office has to escort you home now, I see,” the older woman said, coming into the kitchen. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”
Brandy was surprised to see Meg come frisking in from the dining room, tail high, and thrust her creamy muzzle up to both of them. She supposed Meg had earned dispensation for services rendered.
“The vet sold me a marvelous new flea remedy,” her mother said drily.
On the telephone pad was a message from Weston Stone. His mother’s graveside rites would be at eleven o’clock Monday morning. The Stones hoped an early time would draw less attention from the curious. There was also another message to call Mack.
He answered the phone with something between a whine and a growl. “What’s going on? Last thing I knew you were laid up in the hospital. I call and you’re gone. You’re never at your office, and no one knows where the hell I can reach you.”
“It’s been a wacky week. It should all be over by Monday night, the deadline for this story.” Maybe the Stone case would go down Monday, she thought, and with it her association with John.
Mack breathed into the phone. “I’m making plans, kid.”
Brandy hung up, feeling melancholy. I’ve got to realize John’s a passing infatuation, she thought, a momentary thrill. Mack’s a known quantity, rock solid. Someone she’d known most of her life.
Almost as soon as Brandy put down the receiver, Detective Morris called. “Thought I told you to stay with people.” More a bark than a comment.
“I was only alone a short time in my car. Did the people I’ve been talking to have alibis last night, at the time the garage door slammed shut?”
The detective’s sigh was audible. “Not much help there. Mrs. Able went to a concert in Mount Dora with friends from her condo and stopped for coffee afterward.” That didn’t sound like the solitary Grace Brandy knew, but maybe Grace felt lonely while Mabel Boxley was away. “Trouble is she drove home alone,” Morris went on. “Says she got lost, wandered around a while. Not used to driving herself. The gatekeeper checked her in about twelve–thirty.
“Blackthorne says he was home alone all evening, ditto Elton Langdon.” That didn’t sound like Ace, either, although he might spend a lot more time by himself than he liked to admit.
“And Sylvania Langdon?”
“Left the retirement center about nine and drove back to her house that night, also by herself. No one there to verify that, either.”
Brandy wandered back into the kitchen, where Meg now flopped beside the stove, her valuable nose between her paws.
“Sorry I’m late again tonight,” she said to her mother, who was slicing a loaf of homemade bread at the counter. Brandy sniffed the pot of stew simmering on the stove. “But I can make a contribution in this case.” She began ladling meat and potatoes into two bowls. “I think I know who killed Eva Stone. I’m working on a way to prove it.”
TWENTY–TWO
Sunday morning’s paper ran a small box on the front page: local journalist unhurt in apparent carbon monoxide attack. Few details. The enterprising Leesburg reporter had picked up the record at the Sheriff’s Office. Now Brandy couldn’t watch for surprise or alarm when she met her suspects.
At nine she phoned John’s trailer. She had expected he might stay at his parents, but he answered. Sharon? Brandy couldn’t tell if she was there. No tell–tale murmurs in the background. “I better pick you up to meet Sylvania,” Brandy said.
“God, I’ll be glad when I can drive. We’ll wait for her outside the church. I don’t feel up to sitting through the service. I had a rough night.”
That puffy arm. If he cuddled up to a girl friend, it might be a handicap. Brandy smiled to herself.
When she called Weston’s Stone’s home number, his wife’s pleasant voice answered. Brandy accepted the invitation to Monday’s graveside ceremony.
“Mrs. Stone has a request,” Weston’s wife said. “Grace Able would like to be there, but her companion will be busy and she feels awkward coming alone. Mrs. Stone doesn’t want her to feel left out. Thinks it would look like we’re discriminating against Brookfield’s wife. I believe you’re a friend of John Able? I took the liberty of saying you two would pick her up. Is that all right? The other family members will be there, too.”
John probably had no plans to attend with Brandy, but Mrs. Stone needn’t know that. Brandy would be glad to bring Grace Able. She wanted her there, and without the indispensable Mabel Boxley. Blackthorne would surely bring Sylvania. She’d need his support, and Ace would come as a family member out of curiosity. They’d all be together then. Brandy would have a chance to tie up loose ends.
“I’ll call Mrs. Able,” Brandy said, and looked up Grace’s number in her directory.
Grace sounded resigned when Brandy made her offer. Plainly she would rather not go. “Mabel got back yesterday,” she said, “but she’ll be busy tomorrow morning, picking up our airline tickets. I suppose it’ll look rude if I don’t go, especially if Mrs. Stone wants me there.” Brandy arranged to stop for her at ten–thirty the next morning. To save time, Grace said she would wait on a bench near the gate.
When Brandy drew up before John’s trailer and rang the bell, she found his mood not much better than the widow’s.
He didn’t ask her in, but then there wasn’t time. She couldn’t see a car that looked right for Sharon. Brandy expected no less than a Corvette.
“I�
�ll go to the funeral tomorrow out of respect for Mrs. Stone,” John said as he climbed into the hatchback’s passenger seat. “My folks expect me to be there, but I hate taking any more time off. I’m on thin ice at the company as it is. I’ve got no prospect for a permanent job, and I can’t save this one if I don’t get the use of my arm soon. I’m not much good as a draftsman now, even on the computer.” He slammed the car door. “I haven’t had another offer for an internship. And no prospect has turned up to buy Sylvania’s house.”
Brandy looked at him sorrowfully. It was probably her fault that he’d lost the internship in Leesburg. She was the one who most rattled Blackthorne’s cage. It was her fault, too, that he injured his arm. “What does the doctor say?”
“He wants to see me this afternoon. He’ll tell me when I can use it then.”
Brandy explained Weston Stone’s request. “They expect us both to take Grace to the cemetery. It’s important to Eva Stone’s mother that Grace is there. You probably expected to go with your parents, but Grace will think it’s funny if you aren’t along. You’re the relative, after all. I’m just your temporary driver.” Would he call the plan more manipulation?
They rode for a few minutes in silence. “Your boy friend coming, too?”
“Doesn’t seem appropriate,” Brandy said, thinking more of Sharon than of Mack. “It isn’t a social occasion.”
“Pick me up then in about half an hour before the thing starts. I’ll tell my folks I’ll meet them there, but we have to make it short.”
At least the summer rains had stopped for the day. Brandy parked on a shady side street near the stone church with steeply pitched roof and narrow stained glass windows. At last the final strains of the organ died away, the rear doors opened, and worshippers began filing out. After the most of the congregation had shaken hands with the minister and strolled to their cars, or clustered outside to visit, Brandy spotted the gangly great–aunt they were waiting for——a head above the rest.