by Leslie Leigh
Allie's brain kicked into overdrive. Who could it have been? Was Tad Mills faking this threat? She'd seen this sort of thing before, on the Honey Reilly case.
"Are we done?" asked Jimmy.
"I guess so."
"I want scotch eggs."
"What are scotch eggs?"
Jimmy's eyes grew wide. "You never heard of scotch eggs? Oh man. You take a hard-boiled egg, right? Then you cover it with ground sausage. You really gotta pack it on there. Then you dip it in an egg wash and breadcrumbs. Then you deep-fry the sucker."
"Then I go lie down in the hospital waiting room while you eat it."
"You only live once."
"With a heart condition, for sure."
"Just a nice green salad on the side. With a fig and espresso balsamic vinaigrette."
Allie rolled her eyes. "Anything else?"
He thought for a moment. "You dating anyone?"
"That's all then," said Allie. "Thank you, Jimmy dear."
"Come again."
4.
No.
Tad wasn't a murderer.
Allie prided herself on her ability to read people. There were those who struck her as folks whom one should keep at arm's length. Tad Mills wasn't one of those at all. In fact, whenever she'd been in his company, she'd not been able to resist him. If she didn’t know any better, she would have said he had a bright soul or a colorful aura, but she believed in neither of those things, or at least she didn’t believe that anyone could see them if they existed. But she had to resort to poetry when trying to define the undefinable. Tad Mills fell into that category. She thought it in the forefront of her mind for the first time. She was falling in love with him. He was gay and she was in love with him.
She slumped deeper into her chair. Dinah the cat jumped up onto her lap, battering her legs with 22 pounds of feline flab and paws like ice picks.
She now found herself faced with the one true dilemma of her new life as a would-be detective: How does one press through bias to arrive at the truth?
Let's say Tad was guilty. "Let's put that hat on for a moment and see if it feels comfortable, shall we, ma chatte?"
The cat responded with a flexed claw in her knee. Allie was used to fulfilling the detested role of kitty cat pincushion, and so did not even flinch.
Dinah did, however, pick up her little head, the radar ears honed in on some sound undetectable by human ears, and then jumped down and darted off into the bedroom as fast as her little feline legs could carry her.
And that's when Detective Harry Tomlin came up the walkway to the house.
With an exasperated sigh, she opened the door.
"Hi there," he said cheerily. "Can I come in for a sec?"
"No."
"Oh, Ms. Griffin, don’t be like that. I have a few questions about Sally Kane's murder and I just want to chat a bit. Certainly if you have nothing to hide, you wouldn’t mind having a tête-à-tête?"
"Tête-à-tête? Well, since you put it that way. Entre, monsieur."
He entered her house and looked around, nodding. "I forgot how cozy and nice it is here. Nothing like my little place."
"It's home."
"Mm. How's the cat? Dino?"
"Dinah. She's fine. She's hiding right now. She hates intruders."
"Intruders! That's not a very nice way to put it. I'm a visitor, not an intruder."
"Oh," said Allie. "Hold on a second."
She went over to the coffee table and picked up her cell phone.
"Hold on," she said. "Wi-Fi here’s a little sketchy sometimes. Ah, here we go. Intrude. Verb. To put oneself in a place or situation where one is uninvited or unwelcome. Mmm. Yeah, that sounds about right. You, sir, are an intruder."
"Cute."
"I've had a bad day, Detective. Can we just get on with it?"
"Sure, if that's the way you want it. Your friend Tad Mills."
"What about him?"
"Witnesses say they saw you and him leaving the theater together the day Sally Kane was killed."
"That's right. We went to lunch. That was in the interim befo—"
"Was he in your sight the whole time before the two of you left?"
Allie sighed. She didn’t like being interrupted. "No, I can’t say that he was."
"Interesting. At one point would you say was he out of your sight?"
"I would say it was right before we left. He went backstage for something. I don’t know what."
"Was he gone for long?"
"I don't know."
"You don’t know if he was gone for long or not?"
"We were all standing around chit-chatting. You know how it is. It's what you yourself do after you give orders to your staff."
He chuckled. "That's good. Ok, Ms. Griffin. I shall not intrude any longer. But you should know by now that we think Tad Mills could be a suspect in this case. And, well, you know, once you're seen hanging around with a murder suspect, it tends not to look too good."
"Accessory before the fact, I know."
"That's right. So you—"
"So I probably don’t want to leave town for a while. Right. Got it. Anything else?"
"One more thing: work on your attitude, Ms. Griffin. The courts don’t like a smart aleck."
With this, he left without saying goodbye.
Allie looked around the house for something to throw or something to break. Something to break would be better.
She found nothing.
She sat down on the couch with a huff and a grunt and chewed her nails till they stung.
5.
"Can we meet for lunch?"
These five words held great weight for Allie Griffin. She'd sat with people in various locations and had some good luck getting them to talk. But the best locations were the eateries. There was something about the comfort of food that relaxed the mind and freed it of just enough inhibition to serve the Truth.
Angus MacFetridge agreed to the meet. She couldn’t believe it.
She was nervous, to say the least. She'd watched the man in dictatorial action at the theater and found herself terrified by him. Here was a man who had no compunction toward destroying the hopes of vulnerable young actors. But this was the life Allie had chosen for herself. She had a job to do. For the first time in her life it seemed, she was her own person, and that simple fact both frightened and electrified her.
The Creek Falls Café gave her the home team advantage. Everyone knew her here. She'd flirted with just about every one of the waiters, and on more than one occasion enjoyed a beverage on the house just for being the local celebrity. This latter compliment she took with all due humility. But the attention was nice.
All her hopes were immediately dashed to the rocks when she walked in and saw Angus MacFetridge sitting in a booth surrounded by four or five waiters and waitresses, telling an animated story to their vocal delight.
So much for the home team advantage.
"Well would you look who's about to grace my table," he said, interrupting himself.
Allie was greeted heartily by her café friends. She parked herself in the booth and asked for a coffee.
"Go on," said Angus, "lest your boss suspect me of organizing you, you tip slaves."
He smiled at Allie. "My people. All future actors. For some reason they take it upon themselves to think I possess some secret, some wizardry, that all I would have to do would be to execute some dexterous pass and, voici, a Broadway star fashioned from the Verdenier working class like some Disney fairytale." He opened the menu and glanced up and down at it. "It doesn’t work that way but damned if they'll ever learn. You have to be harsh, Ms. Griffin. These adorable little munchkins have no idea what it's like to be too old for Broadway. They need to hear it from someone in my position that they have no chance of ever making it. Do you know why they need to hear it? Because there are far too many actors and actresses in the world and far too few scientists and medical professionals. The real artists can’t be discouraged. They're incapable
of it. But the ones who are better suited to a life of serving humanity for the greater good, better to have their false hopes crushed early. I don’t believe I've ever had the grilled eggplant panino, have you?"
Allie Griffin had a mouthful of nothing to offer.
Angus gave a close-mouthed smile and said, "You need not be afraid of me, Ms. Griffin. I'm a declawed kitten."
"A rabid declawed kitten," said Allie.
He brought forth a chesty laugh. "You've only seen me in the theater, my dear. That's my theater self. This, this humble, aging stalk of boiled celery is the true Angus MacFetridge. Now, what is it you'd like to discuss?"
The waiter came by with Allie's coffee, took their orders, and then scurried off.
"The phone calls."
"Phone calls," he repeated.
"To Tad Mills. He thinks you were threatening him. Trying to scare him or something."
"I don’t know what you’re talking about."
"Let me refresh your memory, Mr. MacFetridge."
"Angus, Ms. Griffin."
"Allie, Mr. MacFetridge. Tad Mills was receiving phone calls of a threatening nature. It seems someone had it in mind to make him think his days were numbered. A descending major scale, I believe is what they call it. One tone a day every day up until the day Sally Kane was murdered."
The man's face had fallen. "I think you may have the wrong person. It's strange...you... Tad told you about this?"
"He did. He told me you were after him for insulting Sally."
A small chuckle grew in the man's chest and made its way to the top of his throat. "Sally Kane?"
"You two had an affair, did you not?"
"Oh, it wasn't a secret. At least I don’t think it was. We were...how do you put it? On and off. Yes, I was angry at Tad. And yes, I guess I can say it now, Sally sent those messages. I had nothing to do with them, but I knew about them. I suppose this makes me an accessory after the fact."
"Why did she do it?"
"Like you said: To put the fear of God into him. Sally didn’t take insults peacefully. No, she was rather like a spitting cobra who regarded an insult as a poke with a sharp stick. It's what attracted me to her. All that beauty in a fiery little package. It ignited this icy old blood of mine."
The food arrived and they stopped talking to enjoy the first few bites of food and chat about this eatery, which they both admitted was one of the best things about Verdenier.
"So," Allie said, "you take care of your mother?"
He nodded at his plate. "My lot in life. I was a terrible little child. Drove her crazy. Literally."
"I think that's part of a child's job."
He didn’t smile. "Don’t get me wrong. She deserved much of it."
"Listen," Allie said, fearing the conversation had taken an awkward turn, "I happen to know you're a fan of cigars."
He looked up at her. "Who told you that?"
"I lived with a cigar smoker for many years. I detected a whiff of it on you. Plus, your key chain has one of those cigar cutter thingies on it."
"My key chain? But you didn’t see it."
"Yeah, I did. When I walked in you had it on the table and then you took it off as I came to sit down."
"You do possess a keen eye. No wonder you have the reputation you have. Your husband then, I gather, was the smoker?"
"He's long gone, but would you believe I still have the humidor?"
"You don’t say."
"A little desktop thing made from Spanish cedar. There are some cigars left. I could send the whole kit 'n' caboodle to you."
"Oh, I wouldn’t dare—"
"It's nothing. Please, I'm over it. Things are just things. I have the memories of him. That's all I need. It's taking up space in my closet."
"Well, I don’t know what to say."
"I'll need your address."
"Oh, of course."
He took a pen from his breast pocket and grabbed a napkin.
Right-handed.
He handed the napkin to her.
"Great," said Allie. "I'll send it to you this week. Hey, if you don’t mind my saying, you have the most beautiful penmanship I think I've ever seen in my life."
"Thank Sister Agatha from St. John the Baptist elementary school for that," he said, replacing the pen in his pocket. "Don’t let these boyish looks fool you. I'm old enough to have survived the days when Catholic school nuns didn’t spare the rod. I got my knuckles cracked with a yardstick every time my cursive was uneven."
"Yikes."
"I once came home from school with a red hand print on my face. One of the sisters had slapped me that hard. When I got home, you know what dear old mother said? She said: Why did you make her do that? Pleasant woman."
"I— I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up—"
"Please, it's all over now. Sister Agatha died years ago. I saved her obituary."
Allie felt a more than a tinge of awkwardness, for the man's features had suddenly transformed. Here was the child before her, hurt, betrayed, and angry. His dark eyes had narrowed and his face tightened like a drum skin. There was something of the masochist in him now, seeming to revel in this revealed bit of morbidity.
"Well," said Allie, "I guess old habits die hard."
The man's face loosened. "Pardon?"
"Habits? Nuns? Never mind."
He didn’t smile "Hm. Amusing."
"Sorry."
"No, no, please. You are an extraordinary woman, Allie. I told you, I prefer women who have a fire in them."
He stared right into her eyes.
"That's why I always carry Tums," said Allie."So...how about those Patriots?"
It was several minutes before the awkwardness dissipated. By that time her heart had sunk a few more inches within her, weighted as it was by the increasing suspicion she had about Tad Mills.
6.
Several months ago, Allie Griffin had unwittingly signed up for a program with the ambiguous title of "Verdenier Roots." It was at one of the farmers' markets held every Saturday in Allen Park from May through September, rain or shine. This one particular Saturday was a busy one, for a bunch of college-aged kids with no particular collegiate affiliation had set up a booth at the very end of the line. What made these enterprising youths so distinguished in their actions was their dedication to the cause. Not content with containment inside a meager six feet by six feet of booth space, they spread like spilled beads across the whole of the park, shedding pamphlets and slogans wherever they went. A bunch of them held clipboards, and their strategy was a devilishly crafty one: A baby-faced male with clipboard in hand approached an innocent market-goer and began spouting platitudes regarding the virtues of being grass-fed and farm-raised and how GMOs caused three-headed baby lizards to storm a tiny communist village somewhere in Central America and chew up all the straw in the rooftops. At the same time, a pigtailed female clad in Daisy Dukes and tank top approached the victim with a tray featuring a delectable assortment of milky treats—yogurt-coated raisins and peanuts, tres leches cake glistening with sticky sugar, and so forth—and they explained that the man with the ice cream would be by in a few minutes. By this time, the mark will have already signed the clipboard, befuddled as he or she was with the onslaught of buzzwords and confectionary shrapnel. And in three weeks, the unfortunate victim would begin to receive weekly deliveries of milk at five in the morning, accompanied by a one-time delivery of a cooler to be placed as close to the most accessible door as possible, and a bill for that week's delivery (and a one-time deposit for the cooler).
This was Verdenier Roots' devious scheme, and it worked. The beneficiary was Teller Farms on Route 5, a dairy run by folks who'd missed their true calling as Atlantic City con artists.
And so it came to be that Allie Griffin woke up one day to a shipment of six quarts of farm-fresh milk delivered right to her door, and a bill for same in her mailbox.
She'd decided what many in her position decided: That it was indeed for a good cause, that the idea
of bringing back milk deliveries was a novel one, but that six quarts a week was probably a bit much. So she decided to keep the service just as long as they behaved themselves. And she cut down the order to two quarts and a pint of cream a week. And everyone was more or less happy.
That was several months ago.
This morning she lay in bed having had a great deal of trouble sleeping the night before. Dinah had kept her up half the night mewling about the change in barometric pressure, and there were thoughts swirling in her head about the situation with Tad Mills. Foggily, she made her way to the kitchen and switched on the coffee pot from the night before. She fed Dinah, gave the kitty her shot, and then went for the coffee.
No milk.
Of course, today was Monday—delivery day. She went to her front door and opened it to access the cooler.
Two quarts of milk and a pint of cream, as ordered. And a folded piece of paper.
A bill? The bills were supposed to go in the mailbox. Perhaps there was a new delivery guy, one who'd not yet picked up on the subtleties of modern day milk delivery and billing.
She opened the bill.
It was a typed note:
SALLY KANE HUMMED THE FIRST FOUR NOTES OF BEAUTIFUL SOUP.
She stood there in the doorway, in her flannel pajamas with the constellations on them, staring at the note. An eerie chill spilled over her arms, and it wasn't from the early morning weather. This was definitely a shade from her first case, the Tori Cardinal case. She would be a fool not to recognize the reference to Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. The mock turtle sang that song to Alice. Beautiful Soup.
Now here was the reference staring her in the face. The last time she'd had this happen to her, the references had led her down a false path—one intended to make her believe that it was a path that led to a solution, when in actuality it was a path leading toward her own demise. She didn’t want to make the same mistake here.
So the first question was: Who?
Who sent this note?
Unfortunately the answer wouldn’t come easily. She was now well known in town, and not just as the queen of the cougars. Thank God that reputation was beginning to die down, but it was dying down in favor of her newfound reputation as a small-town sleuth, a real-life Jessica Fletcher—albeit a younger model with stylish clothes—and that reputation carried with it a whole new set of expectations. And here now was something else she hadn't foreseen, the ability of any anonymous party to push at her pressure points. Someone, somewhere had read or seen a story about her regarding the Tori Cardinal case, and now here was a throwback.