A Murder for the Books

by Victoria Gilbert

  “Warning your date you’ll be late?” Richard asked as I hit the send button on my phone.

  I was too preoccupied to attempt a clever response. “No date,” I said, focusing my gaze on the side window as we headed back down the long driveway. I considered telling Richard about the Jaguar but decided against it. There was no sense in dragging him any further into my investigations. I also had no desire to taint his new relationship with his great-uncle’s former ward, especially if Kendrick did turn out to be innocent.

  Richard tapped me lightly on the arm. “If you’d like to stop for a bite to eat . . .”

  “No, thanks. I just want to get home, if you don’t mind,” I replied, still staring out the side window.

  “Of course,” Richard said in a way that made me turn to look at him.

  “I’m really tired is all.”

  “Understandable. Another time.” Richard’s tone was perfectly pleasant, but he kept his eyes on the road and only made small talk for the remainder of the drive.

  When we reached our street, I decided a white lie was in order. I’d just say Richard had had some prior engagement or something. I certainly couldn’t tell Aunt Lydia that he’d been the one to suggest dinner and I’d refused.

  I’d never hear the end of that.

  Chapter Eleven

  After a few weeks, the furor over the murder died down, although wild speculation flourished like honeysuckle on farm fences.

  I listened to it all, making mental notes based on everyone’s theories, but said little in response. I also didn’t tell Aunt Lydia much about my visit with Kurt Kendrick, avoiding any mention of his comments concerning Uncle Andrew. Instead I blathered on about the house and the art until Aunt Lydia’s eyes glazed over and I knew she wouldn’t question me again.

  Straightening in my diner seat, my delicious homemade egg salad sandwich reduced to crumbs on my plate, I idly swirled my now-cold coffee with a teaspoon as I listened to my aunt discuss the murder with Zelda Shoemaker and their close friend Walter Adams.

  It was Monday, Walt’s day off for the week. Since he had less than one year until retirement and a mountain of comp time, his boss had suggested a four-day workweek. Walt had certainly earned the shorter hours. He’d worked at the Government Accountability Office, better known as the GAO, in DC for over forty years, driving the two-hour round trip every day before the MARC rail line improved his commute.

  “I just wish the investigators would come up with something,” Aunt Lydia said. “It’s unnerving, thinking of a murderer in our midst. Everyone looking at each other like, ‘Are you the one?’” She pointed her fork at Zelda and Walt, who laughed.

  “I was at work,” Walt said. “Squinting at a computer screen like always.” He leaned back, tipping up the front legs of his chair. Chrome with a crimson faux-leather seat cushion, the chair was too short for his lanky frame. He was over six feet tall and, according to my aunt, had scarcely gained a pound since high school.

  Aunt Lydia, Zelda, and Walt had been friends since grade school, when they’d ridden the same bus. The fact that Walt was one of the few African Americans living in Taylorsford at the time seemed to have no effect on their friendship. Until they were teens, that is. Sent to a large high school that drew in students from all over the county, they went their separate ways for a while. “There was a lot of racial tension around that time,” my aunt had explained. “It really wasn’t safe for Walt to hang out with two white girls. We still occasionally met in secret, though. Just to catch up on things.”

  Now the three friends met at the Heapin’ Plate for lunch once a week. I occasionally joined them when Sunny volunteered to take charge at the library.

  “And I have an alibi too. I was working at the county food bank. Lots of people saw me there. Not that I would shoot someone in the head, anyway. Not when poison’s so much easier.” Zelda grinned and tapped her finger against the red Formica tabletop.

  I flashed her a smile before allowing my gaze to wander. The Heapin’ Plate was an eclectic mixture of late nineteenth-century class and nineteen-fifties kitsch. The building had once been a general store and retained its tall plaster walls and pressed-tin ceiling. But Doris and Bethany hadn’t followed that style in their decorating, opting for chrome-edged round tables, yellow-checked gingham curtains, and metal ladder-back chairs. Separating the eating area from the kitchen was a massive oak counter capped with a thick slab of marble. It was a remnant of the building’s previous incarnation. The rest of the store’s original antique furnishings had been stripped and sold—by Sylvia Baker, of course—before the building was rented to the Virts.

  “Say what you like, I don’t buy that stranger-passing-through-town theory that Don Virts keeps mentioning.” Zelda shook her head, bouncing her cap of crisp blonde curls.

  With her wrinkle-free face and rosy cheeks and lips, Zelda looked younger than her sixty-five years. Of course, her dyed and permed hair added to this illusion, although Zelda went no further with youth-enhancing alterations. She was a short full-figured woman whose zest for life lit up her tea-brown eyes. I had it on good authority that Zelda, a widow, was pursued by several of the older men at her church.

  She always laughed at this and swore she’d never marry again. Many people took this as a sign of her devotion to her late husband. But Aunt Lydia had told me in confidence that there was another reason.

  Zelda and Walt were in love. And had been ever since grade school.

  Of course, given the time in which they’d grown up, they’d never dated. They’d both married other people and were, to all appearances, happy. Zelda, who was childless, had reveled in her job as town postmaster. She’d loved knowing everything about everyone and had only retired because her superiors, who’d wanted to “modernize” the post office, had forced her out.

  Walt, whose wife had died five years ago, also lived alone since his four children worked in jobs scattered all over the country. “I guess that’s the least terrifying option,” he said after taking a sip of his iced tea. “Hard to believe someone in your hometown would murder your mom.”

  “There’s been murders here before.”

  I glanced over my shoulder and up into the face of Clark Fowler.

  His years as a signalman on the railroad showed in Clark’s lined face, but his dark eyes were bright as those of a hawk. And as unblinking.

  “Hi, Clark. Have a seat.” Aunt Lydia motioned toward the empty chair next to her.

  “Thanks, but I’m just here to pick up some takeout.” Clark circled around so that he was facing me across the table. “But heard ya talkin’ and had to chime in.”

  “What murders?” Walt asked. “That Cooper case was never proven, and the orphanage deaths were a tragic accident. You know that better than anyone, Clark.”

  “Not an accident. Not by a long shot.”

  “What do you mean?” Walt’s chair legs hit the linoleum with a clang as he leaned forward.

  Zelda laid her hand on Walt’s arm. She was probably signaling him to hush. It was hard to believe that Walt hadn’t ever heard one of Clark’s rants about his mother’s death, but I supposed it was possible. His crazy work schedule and tendency to bury himself in his woodshop when he had any free time might have prevented him from encountering Clark Fowler’s conspiracy theories until now.

  And after all, I hadn’t heard about it before the discovery of that file in the archives, even though I’d spent time in Taylorsford since I was fifteen.

  Clark thrust his bony fingers through his belt loops, hitching up his loose jeans. “My mother never killed those kids with bad mushrooms. No, sir. She was plenty sick before that, and so were they. They died of some illness caused by somethin’ out there on that farmland. Somethin’ in the soil, or water, or air. Town just didn’t want to admit to it. Negligence was what it was, pure and simple.”

  “What a load of nonsense.”

  Everyone swiveled in their chairs. Mayor Bob Blackstone stood in the doorway, brushing some im
aginary lint from his charcoal-gray sleeve. He was a man of average height, whose muscular frame seemed poised to burst through his fitted suits.

  The conversations filling the diner ceased, and all eyes followed Bob as he strode over to our table, smoothing his slicked-back brown hair. Although he was only forty-six, he always looked like he had stepped off the set of some fifties’ television courtroom drama. “Clark Fowler, you’ve been spreading that lie for years. Isn’t it about time you accepted reality?”

  “You mean your reality?” Clark dropped his hands to his sides and straightened as much as possible, given that his shoulders were hunched by arthritis. “I know it was your dad and his cronies who covered stuff up. Put the blame on my mother, God rest her innocent soul.”

  “No one blames her. It was an accident,” Bob replied calmly.

  Bethany Virts—short, wiry, and dark haired like her older brother, Don—popped out from the kitchen, clutching a white paper bag. “Mr. Fowler, I have your order.” She held up the bag and shook it slightly, as if enticing the old man to turn away from the mayor.

  Clark paid no attention to her. He stepped around the table to face off with Bob Blackstone. “I know that story about mushrooms was a cursed lie. My mother knew the difference between poisonous ’shrooms and the edible kind. She grew up in the mountains, learned all ’bout herbs and wild plants—just like that Eleanora Cooper, whose name’s been smeared for decades too. And by the same people.”

  “No one is accusing your mother of anything. It was an accident, pure and simple. My father knew that, as did everyone in town.”

  “Your father was in on the cover-up. Mighty convenient for him and the others not to be blamed. And what happens? Why, the orphanage disappears, along with the truth, and you eventually get to scoop up the land for a thin dime. And now”—Clark fixed Bob with his piecing glare—“you get to sell it off for a mighty nice chunk of change. Shenanigans is what I call it. Shady deals and shenanigans.”

  I looked over at Aunt Lydia and raised my eyebrows. Shenanigans, I mouthed at her, but she just pressed two fingers to her lips and shook her head.

  “If you don’t mind”—Bethany’s high voice broke through the sudden chatter filling the room—“I’d rather you not talk about this in my diner.”

  I looked over at her, noticing her thin face had turned as pale as the bag she clutched. She set it down and slumped against the counter.

  “Yes, really, people,” Aunt Lydia said, raising her voice so she could be heard above the din, “give the poor child a break. She just lost her mother.”

  Clark wheeled around and pointed a gnarled finger at Bethany. “Don’t play the innocent—you don’t want to hear this ’cause your grandpa was probably in on it too. Douglas Beckert was just as guilty as the rest, and I bet your mother knew. That’s why she was killed. She knew her daddy helped cover up the truth ’bout all those deaths at the orphanage, and with her mind goin’, someone was afraid she would spill the real story.”

  Bob Blackstone leapt forward and grabbed Clark Fowler by the forearm, spinning him back around. “Leave that girl alone. You can believe whatever you want, old man, but don’t attack innocent people based on your wild theories. Or do I have to call Deputy Tucker on you again?”

  Clark yanked his arm free and stepped back, his breath wheezing from his lungs. “I’ve been silent long enough. You’ve seen to that, you and your father and the whole mess of big shots who think they run this town. Well, I’m tellin’ you now—I’m not puttin’ up with it no more. I’ve got some information, yes, I do. And I’m going to make it public just as soon as I can. Then let’s see how that blasted development deal of yours works out. It won’t, if I have anything to do with it, I swear.”

  Bob raised his arms and curled his fingers as if he were about to make a fist. Walt shoved back his chair until it screeched and jumped in between the two men.

  “Enough of this. Bethany’s suffering, and all you two can do is argue and fight. You should be ashamed.”

  I glanced at Zelda. Her eyes were shining with unabashed pride.

  “This is none of your business,” Clark snapped.

  “I’m making it my business. Now you grab your food, pay Bethany, and go. We don’t need a fight between two grown men who should know better.”

  Bob Blackstone dropped his arms but cast Clark one last angry glare over Walt’s shoulder. “I’m not going to lower myself to fight someone who’s obviously mentally disturbed. But I’m warning you, Clark Fowler—spread any more rumors or interfere with my business dealings in any way, and I’ll make you pay.” He turned on his heel and stormed out of the diner.

  Clark muttered to himself, something about “liars and thieves.”

  Walt laid a gentle hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Go home, Clark. Cool off. I’ll grab your food. I’m sure Bethany won’t care if you just put it on your account.” He crossed to the counter and grabbed the bag.

  Bethany looked up as Walt slid some money across the counter. She shook her head, but he just pressed his fingers against the back of her hand.

  “Here, you have your lunch.” He handed the bag to Clark. “Head on out now, okay?”

  Clark gazed sullenly up into Walt’s pleasant face. “All right. Got no quarrel with you.” He shuffled to the front of the diner but turned at the door. “But there is somethin’ these town leaders have been hidin’ for a long time, I just know it. Every one of them that was on that town council back in the day is guilty. And that includes your friends’ grandparents too, Walt Adams. All them Bakers and Littons and Shoemakers and Beckerts and the whole lot of them.” He hoisted the bag of food close to his chest and turned to shove his way through the half-open front door.

  Walt sat back down at our table. “I guess that was our entertainment for the day.”

  “You handled that well,” Aunt Lydia said.

  Zelda just smiled. As I leaned over to pick up a dropped napkin, I noticed she and Walt were holding hands under the table.

  It was sweet and sad all at the same time. They still didn’t think that they could be open with their affection. Old habits died hard, especially if you’d been raised to fear exposure.

  “But that stuff Clark Fowler said about a cover-up, is that possible?” I asked, straightening in my chair. “Because I’m helping someone with research about the Cooper murder case, and I wonder if it does tie in somehow.”

  Aunt Lydia and Zelda shared a conspiratorial glance.

  “Oh, that’s right, your new neighbor,” Zelda said. “The good-looking one. Richard something.”

  I shot Aunt Lydia a furious glance. “Richard Muir.”

  “Yes, a dancer of some sort. And single, I hear.” Zelda smiled brightly.

  I blotted my lips with my napkin to muffle a swearword. “He is also a choreographer and a full-time instructor at Clarion. And Paul Dassin’s great-nephew. Which is really why I am helping him. He wants to research the Cooper case. Thinks that Eleanora got a bad rap.”

  “I think she probably did.” Walt’s expression was thoughtful. “Being an outsider and all.”

  Zelda looked over at him, her bright eyes shadowed under lowered lids.

  “Richard Muir is a very nice young man,” Aunt Lydia said. “Although he hasn’t managed to accept that dinner invitation I extended a couple of weeks ago.”

  “He’s been busy filling in for someone who was injured and couldn’t teach a summer workshop at the university. But I know that he’s free now because he called today.” I cursed silently when Aunt Lydia offered one of her cat-in-the-cream smiles. “Yes, called. But mainly because he wants to come by the library tomorrow for some more research assistance.”

  “Be sure to invite him to dinner again,” Aunt Lydia said.

  Zelda sat back and slid one finger of her free hand around the rim of her water glass. “You know, we were all so young back in 1958, when that orphanage tragedy happened. Six or seven, right?”

  “Walt and I were six,” Aunt Lydi
a said. “You were seven.”

  “Right. So we don’t really know much about it. Not like some of the older folks in town might.”

  I dropped my napkin over my empty plate. “What are you thinking, Zelda?”

  “Oh, just that maybe Lydia and Walt and I could do a little research of our own. Talk to some of our parents’ friends. The few who are alive, I mean. And some other people who would’ve been old enough at the time to really understand what was going on. I know everybody, or at least where they live. Had to, at the post office. I can make a list.”

  “But we’ll have to be careful.” Walt lifted his and Zelda’s entwined fingers up to the tabletop and immediately released her hand. “We still don’t know who murdered Doris. What if there’s something to what Clark Fowler said? About her knowing some secret, I mean?”

  “That’s true. You probably should keep any investigating low key.” I considered mentioning my suspicions about Kurt Kendrick, but a little voice in my head warned against it.

  Think, Amy. If Kendrick is involved, do you really want Aunt Lydia or Zelda and Walt digging into his business? With his possible ties to illegal activities?

  I pushed back my chair and rose to my feet. “This has been very interesting, but I need to get back to work. Poor Sunny hasn’t had a lunch break yet, and it’s past one-thirty.” I grabbed my purse and fished out some money. “Here, this should cover my lunch and the tip.”

  “Too much,” Zelda said.

  “No, it isn’t. And as for this detective project of yours”—I frowned—“I don’t want you putting yourself in harm’s way for me.”

  Zelda waved me off with one hand. “It’s not for you, my dear. It’s for your delightful new neighbor. And my own curiosity.”

  Ah, there was the crux of it. “Okay.” I studied the three people at the table. Walt looked concerned, Zelda excited, and Aunt Lydia surprisingly subdued. “I know nothing I say will change your minds. Just be careful.”

  “Of course,” said my aunt. “And I’ll do my best to keep these two out of trouble if I can.”