I cleared away the dishes and gave the house a thorough cleaning. I had a lot of nervous energy, or perhaps too much caffeine, coursing through my veins. The entire time, I thought about the professor, turning over in my mind what I should have done differently and what I needed to do now. The best place to start was from the ground up. I should dig into the backgrounds of the people involved and hope a pattern would emerge.
Two o’clock rolled around. With my mind racing and searching for answers, I decided to head on over to Marissa’s, the best place for me to think and sort things out. I figured a piece of chocolate anything could only help my frame of mind.
* * * *
“I’ll have another of the same,” I said to Marissa.
As Marissa brought me my second torte, her lips pursed a little. “You’ll regret this tomorrow. Is something bothering you, Kay?”
I took a bite out of the rich truffle torte covered with chocolate ganache and fresh raspberries. Creamy, luscious chocolate teased my taste buds.
“Yes, Marissa, I have a lot to think about, but this sure helps.”
The door to Sweet Marissa’s Patisserie opened, and Marissa left to greet her new customers. In all of my years, I had never found a place that would compare to Sweet Marissa's. I loved coming here with Deirdre and Elizabeth once or twice a week to sample Marissa’s shockingly rich pastries. This afternoon, needing solitude, I didn’t call them. So much had happened since Saturday night. I needed some time to think, and what better place than this, where the sugar could shoot straight up to my brain.
I glanced around the patisserie. There weren't many people, a couple of regulars sat at tables reading the paper. Across the room, my ex-yoga instructor with her spiky hair sat with her boyfriend, who worked at the health food store. They leaned forward closing the space between them, almost in a pose, and shared a light kiss over a spinach gruyere puff pastry. They looked like they didn't have a care in the world. At the table next to them, a comely middle-aged man, buried his nose in a thick tome. His fingers walked across the table, searching for the chocolate éclair sitting on a plate. Finding it, he drew the pastry behind the book momentarily and, not paying attention, placed it back on the table near his plate with a large bite missing.
I mindlessly bit into my own chocolate torte. My mind drifted back to that night, only two days ago, when I witnessed the murder (well sort of) that gave me a glimpse of a different side of Sudbury Falls, a frightening side that wasn’t safe and secure as the one I had come to know and love. I came to the realization that this was not the utopia I envisioned it to be. Only two days, but it had been a long time to be with my memory of what I should have done but felt powerless to do. In a sugar-induced reverie, I reflected on Sudbury Falls and the people inhabiting this sunny-on-the-outside, perilous-on-the-inside little town.
When we moved to Sudbury Falls, the “old guard” families who had lived here for many generations regarded us as incomers. They were friendly enough on the surface and greeted you on the street, asking how you were or talking about the weather. That was as far as a conversation went. They tended to be tight-knit and socialized more in their own circles. I had made many friends here, but most of them were incomers. My friends Ted Michaels and Margaret MacAlister were the exceptions. Margaret had the silk gossamer hooded robe up in her attic. Was the old guard involved in Sherman Walters' murder? He was an incomer. Who were all the people in the vacant store?
I looked off to the side, out the window, and saw Ted Michaels standing by his car talking to Bill Murphy and making exaggerated motions. Must have just gotten a parking ticket. Bill Murphy...the murderer...
“Kay? Kay? Can I get you anything else?” Marissa stood in front of me, playfully waving her hand in front of my face. When I took notice of her, she laughed. “Would you like more tea? Or another piece of torte?”
“Oh, sure,” I said in jest, then smiled. “No, I think I'm fine for now, Marissa. Thanks.”
Who was in the vacant store? I decided to make a list of everyone who could be involved. I didn’t know a lot of people in Sudbury Falls or how far I could take the list. Should everyone be suspect, even Deirdre and Elizabeth? How did I know they greeted people at the Halloween Ball like they claimed? No way they would be involved. I needed to focus on people who demonstrated the classic traits of a murderer. I thought about this for a while. Those involved in this web would have an overwhelming ego and lack a sense of empathy and affiliation to others outside of the group. They'd have to be clever, leading a double life, and since they succeeded in killing the professor, they would think of themselves as having control over the lives of others. I was certain of that, if nothing else.
It took a good hour of unhurried thought and two large pieces of Marissa’s rich chocolate raspberry truffle torte to help me realize the first step in my plan. I probably could have figured it out with just one piece, but there was nothing like Marissa’s confections to make you think you could conquer the world.
Tomorrow I'd go over and talk to the professor's widow. I needed a clearer idea of who her husband was. Other than knowing his position at the college, I didn't know anything else about him.
As I ate the last forkful of my second piece of the sweet chocolate delight and wiped some chocolate from around my mouth, I reflected on Sudbury Falls. Death had visited our picturesque little town.
“Goodbye, Marissa,” I said as I headed toward the door. “I've got to go home and get ready for tonight. I still need to carve my Jack-O’-Lanterns. As always, it's been a real pleasure.”
Marissa intercepted me and gave me a big hug. “See you soon, Kay.”
It was a good thing Phil wouldn’t be home tonight for dinner. I couldn’t eat another bite.
* * * *
After I got home and carved my Jack-O’-Lanterns, I set them outside on the stoop. Both had comical grins, reminiscent of Alfred E. Neuman. I lit them with several tea candles each. I had experienced enough darkness already this Halloween weekend, and it was time to bring some light into being. I walked down to the driveway to see how they looked from the curb as dusk crept through the streets. I heard eerie music weeping out of Ted's house and blending in with the Fairport Convention music I was listening to. I glanced over to his house and saw Ted standing on his porch watching me. His face was pure white and he wore a Dracula cape. He pulled his cape up to his chin with his left arm and extended his right arm to point at me.
“Good evening, Kay. Happy Halloveen,” Ted said with his best Transylvanian accent. He smiled a toothy grin. I could see his protruding canines from where I was standing. “Vant to come over and see my coffin? Leave your garlic and crosses at home.”
I hesitated for a few seconds before responding. “Tempting offer, Ted. Almost too good to pass up. Maybe later.”
A police car came down the street. Bill Murphy was behind the wheel. I tensed up as he drove past, but he didn't even glance in my direction. After the engine noise dissipated, my ears caught the advancing wave of trick-or-treaters approaching. Their laughter carried over from the next block. Black Cat firecrackers sounded off in the distance. Halloween night in all its glory had begun.
I went back into the house, tore open four jumbo bags of candy, and filled a large wooden bowl with all of my favorite candy bars.
Between answering the door to dole out candy to the little ghosts, goblins, space aliens, and princesses of the neighborhood, I sat down with a pot of tea at the kitchen table to read the evening newspaper, The Sudbury Falls Tribune. Professor Walters’ drowning was the headline:
As ruled by Dr. Michael Anders, the County Coroner of Sudbury Falls, Professor Sherman Walters’ official cause of death is drowning. His death was ruled accidental. Foul play is not suspected. Preliminary toxicology tests have found no drugs in his system. Walters died ten to twelve hours prior to his body being discovered Sunday morning by three women on their morning walk. The time of death is put approximately at midnight.”
“What?” I said.
I set my teacup down so hard on the table that some of the tea splashed out onto the newspaper. No suspicion of foul play? How could Dr. Anders even have finished an autopsy in time for tonight’s paper? He was always incredibly slow whenever I worked with him at the free clinic. How thorough was he? Did he feel rushed to make the deadline for tonight's paper? Something irregular must have shown up. Didn't anyone find it suspicious that the professor would have been down by the river late Saturday night? Where was his wife? There should be so many questions. Why hadn’t they been asked? The newspaper made everything sound so final. The people in town would accept the findings reported in the article and not give it another thought.
I made up my mind right then and there. I would have to investigate so that justice would be served. I had to. The police were involved in the murder. I wasn't one to sit back and ignore what I knew was no mere accident but a murder—a crime I was certain many in town wanted to go unsolved. Someone had to act, and it was going to be me.
Later in the evening after a half hour of relative quiet, half-watching The House on Haunted Hill to try and calm myself down—no movie could be scarier than what was happening in Sudbury Falls—the doorbell rang.
“Trrrick or ttrreat!” Jeff and Rebecca's daughter, Angie, stood at the door with two of her friends. She had long white blunt bangs with the rest of her jet black hair tied back into a ponytail. She wore a high-collared metallic gold floor-length gown covered in sequins. Long black streaks were painted under her heavily lined eyes. The girls looked too old to be out trick-or-treating, but, I suppose I had still gone out at their age.
“Hello, girls.”
“Hello, Mrs. Driscoll. I'm Lady Gaga. Meet my friends, Fergie and Beyoncé.” Both friends giggled at the introduction.
“Nice to meet both of you, Fergie, Beyoncé. Love your costumes. Very scary, Lady Gaga.” Fergie, with long brown curls, had on a fiery red dress with black knee-high boots. Beyoncé, with her caramel colored curls, had lots of bronzer on her face and wore a clinging white dress and strappy sandals. They looked...well...not their age.
“Have you girls been up to any mischief tonight?”
“No,” they all said at the same time, giggling. Let the girls have their secrets.
“I liked your Tinker Bell costume, Mrs. Driscoll,” Angie said.
“Thank you. When…where did you see me?”
“The Halloween Ball. My mom helped cater the party.”
“They were running out of food, and the three of us helped bring the stuff over,” Fergie said.
“The food was exceptional,” I said. “Your mom did a great job. Plenty to eat.”
“And plenty to drink, all right,” Beyoncé added. They all laughed.
I thought they might be referring to Elizabeth, but I smiled with polite incomprehension and asked, “What do you mean?”
“Some drunk guy had to be carried down the alley that night behind the stores not far from the party,” Fergie said.
“We all saw them,” Angie said.
“Yeah,” Beyoncé said, still laughing. All of a sudden she looked sheepish, realizing she was talking to an adult and not joking around with friends. “It wasn’t that funny.”
“By the vac—the old furniture store a few doors down from the patisserie?” I asked.
They all bobbed their heads in unison.
“Yeah, the alley. He was dragged by two guys, one looked drunk himself,” Angie said. They giggled some more. “He stumbled all over. I suppose he could have just had a bad limp.”
“They didn't see you, did they?” I asked with some trepidation.
All three heads shook.
“The guy looked like our teacher. Wouldn't you say? He limps sometimes,” Beyoncé said.
“What are you talking about?” Fergie asked. “It looked more like the old guy from the hardware store.”
“Our teacher had a sprained ankle a couple of months back. He doesn't limp anymore,” Angie added. “Besides, it was so dark, it could have been anyone.”
I interrupted this little argument to press for more information. “Did you see where they dragged this man?”
“They turned in a few doors down. I heard some racket, and then they disappeared somewhere,” Angie said.
“Was it around the patisserie?”
“Dunno. It could have been,” Beyoncé said. “The drunk guy wore a light brown coat like my Dad's. The one he had on when he picked us up from the movies last week.”
“Yeah, that was a funny movie!”
I tried not to seem too anxious, but I didn’t want to wade through more insipid conversation. “Do you remember what the other men were wearing? Were they in costumes?”
“It was kinda dark but one wore a long white costume. That's how we knew they came from the party,” Angie said.
Beyoncé shifted restlessly from foot to foot by this point, and Fergie gave Angie’s arm a soft nudge.
“We’d better get going, Mrs. Driscoll,” Angie said.
I put a few candy bars in each of their bags. “Well, have fun tonight, girls. And be safe.”
“Thanks. Happy Halloween!” they yelled behind them as they hurried down the steps.
I closed the door. I wondered if they saw the professor being moved from the vacant store to some other building. It stood to reason that he would have been moved in case the intruder came back with other people or the police. It made perfect sense. But where did they take him close by that would be safe from discovery? I'd have to take a look around the area to see if I could find any clues.
Just about nine o'clock, I went outside and blew out the candles in the Jack-O'-Lanterns. I thought I heard a howling. Either there were werewolves in the neighborhood, or Ted had too much to drink. I faintly heard a woman laugh from somewhere. Was that Elizabeth? Did Ted invite her to his coffin?
Chapter Seven
Tuesday, November 1
This morning I called Deirdre and Elizabeth to let them know I wouldn’t be walking. I decided to go over to give the professor's wife my condolences and also to learn more about her husband. First, I walked over to Marissa’s to pick up a sour cream coffee cake I had ordered earlier. A few remains of smashed pumpkins lay in mournful heaps on the streets. Those kids had been busy disposing of the neighborhood Jack-O'-Lanterns as the holiday night came to a close.
I made my way up the brick pathway to the house where the late professor had lived with his wife, gave the doorbell a ring, and waited with the coffee cake in hand, going over what I would say. An attractive but red-eyed woman answered the door after some time.
“Hello, Mrs. Walters. My name is Kay Driscoll. I wanted to come by to tell you how sorry my husband and I are for your loss. We live a few blocks down on Boxelder. I brought this for you.” I handed her the coffee cake.
Mrs. Walters smiled as her eyes moistened. “Thank you. How thoughtful. Please come in. Call me Mary Ann.”
“I’m so sorry we have to meet under these circumstances,” I said as I stepped into the foyer and entered their bright living room. Two of the walls consisted of window panes, while a floor-to-ceiling bookcase occupied another wall. Bordered by shelves full of academic tomes, a doorway led into another room. The bleached oak floor creaked as I followed Mary Ann over to a linen-colored sofa. She put the coffee cake down on a table. I heard clanging noises coming from what must have been the kitchen, through the portal in the bookcase.
We sat in silence for a few seconds. I cleared my throat and trained my eyes on the side of Mary Ann's face. “My friends and I are the ones who discovered your husband's body.”
She looked up into my eyes, and then looked away again. She crossed her legs. “You had a scare also, finding my husband. Isn't it like a bad dream?” Her voice wavered.
“Yes, it's very sad. Were you home when this happened?” I shifted my weight on the sofa so I could turn more toward her. I noticed she had beautiful posture, although somewhat stiff. Her distinguished silver hair was short, the contrast with he
r youthful face interesting. She wore a blue cashmere sweater that matched the color of her eyes and a charcoal wool straight skirt that landed just above her knee. There were several crumpled tissues sticking out from under a throw pillow on the sofa.
“No, I left Friday morning to visit my parents for the weekend.” She looked down at her hands and massaged them. “They live in Milwaukee.” She hesitated. “I got there early afternoon.”
“How did you find out?”
“The police came by looking for me. My neighbors told them where I was and how to reach me.” Mary Ann's eyes and voice showed the signs of tears making their way to the surface. “On Sunday, I received a call from the police with the dreadful news of Sherman's death.”
“That must have been a terrible shock, I'm sorry.” We sat in silence for a few moments. “Did you speak to your husband during the weekend?”
“Yes, I called him Friday afternoon to let him know I had arrived. He was going to have a busy afternoon at school and had arranged a meeting that evening about the book he was writing. I called him again Saturday to see how everything had gone, but he didn't answer.
“So you hadn't spoken to him since Friday?”
“I figured he must be outside cutting the grass since he planned on cutting it one last time for the year. I should have kept trying.” A tear rolled down her cheek, all the while she kept smiling to mask the pain. For as she spoke, I saw the agony in her eyes. I reached out and took her hand. A knot was growing in my stomach. It was the guilt of knowing what I knew about Sherman's death, which I wasn't prepared to tell his wife. I had a lot more facts to uncover before I could reveal the crime to her.
The Ginseng Conspiracy (A Kay Driscoll Mystery) Page 7