MURDER TUNED IN (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 4)

by Leslie Leigh

  The Sally Kane murder had made the news, but thankfully every story had failed to mention that local hero and citizen detective Allie Griffin had been on the scene. So, barring any news of her involvement leaked by rumor alone—it was possible that people were talking—the first and most likely candidate she could think of was someone who was also present at the scene. Someone wanted her and her alone to follow a certain path.

  Again came the resolution: She was not going to make the same mistake twice.

  So who was it?

  Of course, not making the same mistake twice would be tricky. Her first instinct now was as it had been before: To solve the puzzle. Ok then, she'd solve it, but only to clear up one part of the mystery. She wouldn’t be so careless this time as to follow it blindly into any traps.

  Beautiful Soup.

  She'd taken it upon herself to invent various melodies to the tune ever since she was a little girl, until she got older and found out that the tune was intended as a parody of a ballad popular back in Lewis Carroll's day. In one of her obsessive fits to accumulate as much Alice paraphernalia as humanly possible, without being featured on an episode of Hoarders, she had obtained the sheet music to the original song the mock turtle's tune was parodying. It was called "Star of the Evening, Beautiful Star" and was composed by one James M. Sayles.

  As she'd done with any piece of flotsam she couldn’t find and had sudden need for, she figured its current whereabouts was probably the Everything Closet.

  She opened the door to the closet and sighed. She would clean it one day. One day when the planets aligned just right. But right now there was work to be done. Important work. She rummaged through, pushing aside kids’ toys and decks of cards, kitchen utensils without any purpose defined by their physical appearance, bits of mail, a microscope, and, yes, here it was, in a stack of printed-out recipes from various websites and blogs, the sheet music for "Star of the Evening, Beautiful Star."

  She needed a musician to help her decode the fly-speck notes that were spattered across the page before her. She needed Ben.

  She texted him, "You home?"

  A moment later: "Yeah."

  She texted, "Great I'm on my way"

  A moment later: "Bring cake."

  #

  Exactly fifteen minutes later, she arrived at Ben's tiny cottage on North Street, a store-bought devil's food cake in hand.

  "Coffee's on," he said. "Oh, that's what you brought? I thought maybe you'd bake something."

  "Bake something? How would I have time?"

  "I don’t know. How long has it been since you texted you’d be over?"

  "Like, fifteen minutes."

  Ben rubbed the top of his balding scalp. "Huh. I've been working. I always lose track of time when I'm working. I'm sorry, come on in."

  The place was its usual artist's mess of a home: Music manuscript paper, both blank and filled, was scattered about here and there; the floors had not been vacuumed in days; the couch cushions were rumpled and unkempt.

  She stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Listen, Ben. I'm sorry about the other day when I said— You know what I said. It's that Tomlin. He gets on my nerves and then everyone winds up getting the worst of me."

  "Allie, I know how you are. You don’t have to apologize."

  "Thank you. So, what are you working on?" she said, trying to ignore the state of the house.

  "Tweaking the score for Radiant!" he answered from the kitchen.

  "The show's off," she said.

  His face peered out. "I can’t help it. It still needs work." He disappeared again. "Besides," he yelled, "it will be a show again at some point."

  "I guess you’re right."

  He emerged once again. "Ok, sugar, what you got there?"

  She held up the sheet music. "Can you tell me what's going on here?"

  "What's going on here? It's a piece of sheet music."

  "Thanks. I mean, help me decode it."

  "Ok," he said, staring up and down at the sheet. "It's in two-four time; they call that march time."

  March hare? thought Allie.

  "In the key of C. It's a fairly simple tune. Wanna hear it?"

  "I'd love to."

  He brought the music over to the upright piano that dominated his living space, sat down and began to play.

  It was a lively tune, not at all what she’d expected, but in hearing it now, it fit perfectly with the mood of the story. Quaint, but slightly twisted in its presumed innocence. After one play through, Ben started another chorus. By this point, Allie was able to hum along and insert some lyrics from Beautiful Soup in there as well.

  "Wonderful," she exclaimed when he finished.

  "My law degree at work. Mom and Dad are proud."

  "Ok, so there's a mystery here."

  "Naturally. Allie Griffin drops in half-unexpectedly brandishing a piece of archaic sheet music. I didn’t think you were here because you wanted to have a singalong. What's the mystery?"

  She looked at the note-splattered page. "I'll know when I find it."

  "Oy. Del told me about that."

  "Yeah? What did she say?"

  "That it's one of your more annoying habits."

  "You don’t know the rest of them. What are these first four notes here? The ones you're supposed to sing the title over?"

  "G, G, C, and G again." He accompanied his words with a tap on the corresponding piano keys.

  "G-G-C-G," she repeated.

  She whipped out her phone and Googled the acronym.

  "I can see you're busy," said Ben, "so I'm just going to cut into this cake."

  "GGCG stands for the Greater Good Citizen's Government," she said, reading. "The Greater Good Citizen's Government is a non-profit, grass roots organization dedicated to the betterment of Vermont life and society."

  "Sounds nice and responsible."

  "You've never heard of it?"

  "I've been out of the loop ever since I quit the practice five years ago. It must be relatively new."

  "My question is: why didn’t they call it the Citizen's Government for the Greater Good? That has a better ring to it."

  She answered her question as soon as she asked it. "Of course, the acronym was taken. Here we go. CGGG, the Center for Generalized Generational Guidance, a non-profit group dedicated to the betterment of today's disenfranchised youth so that they may lead healthy, more productive lives."

  "Ok then," Ben said around a mouthful of cake.

  The coffeepot beeped and he jumped and went to the kitchen.

  Allie read a little more of the GGCG website.

  "Interesting. Do you know what their About page says?"

  "Lay it on me, kid."

  "The GGCG is committed toward cleaning up Vermont and taking it back from the social parasites that benefit from her resources while giving nothing back in return. We at the GGCG believe that it is our duty as citizens of this great land, in this great country, to ensure that all remains pure and beautiful as God intended."

  Ben peered out with an incredulous smile on his face. "They're Nazi crackpots!"

  "I think Sally Kane may have been a member."

  "What?" he said, his voice cracking with incredulity. "Did she know there was a Jewish man here writing the songs she was singing?"

  "Maybe."

  "And how did you come by this lovely information?"

  She followed Ben into the kitchen. "I received an anonymous note this morning. All it said was, 'Sally Kane liked Beautiful Soup.' That was it. This is as close to a meaning I can come to at the moment."

  "You want to sit down and join me in some dishwater coffee and stale cake?"

  "I have to go," she said. "I'm sorry. Something's come up. I'll have to take a raincheck. The cake is stale you said?"

  "Go. Do what you have to do."

  "Sorry about the cake," she yelled, halfway to her car.

  7.

  Tad Mills lived in a small apartment complex on the south side of town. Were each apartment to
have its walls demolished, the entire building would have made a pretty decent mansion. As it was, however, each apartment was form-fitted to creatures built like Tad Mills or smaller, and single ones at that.

  Allie was hesitant in driving up, hesitant in getting out of the car, hesitant in curling up her fingers for a timid knock at the door up on the second floor of the two-story building.

  Tad answered in black sweats and a white T-shirt, panting, his face burning red, and his clothes splotched with massive sweat stains.

  "Allie," he said, composed though she'd caught him unawares.

  "Can I come in for a second? I see I've caught you in the middle of a workout."

  "Just finishing. But you can come in."

  It was a cozy place. Done up in dynamic hues, aided by some savvy choices by way of wall art, and furnished in postmodern eclectic, the place was as artsy as it got in this tiny little slice of heaven in the Northeast.

  "I was in the area. I hope you don’t mind, I got your address from Del Collins."

  It was a stupid thing to say. Did she expect him to believe she'd asked Del for his address and then found herself in the area randomly? Or was she in the area first and then she called Del? She mentally kicked herself. Around Tad, she tended not to be able to concentrate clearly, and it angered her.

  "Water?" he asked, holding up a filtered pitcher.

  "Sure, that would be great."

  He poured out two glasses. "I would offer you something else but I haven’t gone shopping yet."

  She took the glass and raised it. "To your health."

  "To yours."

  Clink.

  "So?" he said after a moment.

  "Hm?"

  "I know you didn’t come here for water, sweetheart."

  "No," she said, regaining her composure, her mind quickly gearing up for a line of inquiry. "No. I wanted to ask you about your phone calls."

  "Ok."

  "They stopped I'm assuming?"

  "They did."

  "Stopped the day Sally was murdered?"

  "Mm hm." Sip.

  Allie stared at a colorful piece on the wall adjoining the tiny kitchen. "Matisse?"

  "Garage sale. I don’t know who painted it. I don’t know much about art."

  "You have incredible taste."

  "Maybe. Just because I can tell the difference between filet mignon and McDonald's doesn't necessarily mean anything."

  "No," she said from somewhere far away. "I guess not."

  "Allie," the man said, putting his glass down. "Why are you here?"

  She looked at him. "Because you lied. Both to me and to the police."

  He stared at her blankly. "And this because...?"

  "Stop it, Tad. Angus sent you death threats because you insulted Sally? Really? Death threats, Tad?"

  "Allie, honey—"

  "No, no, I'm not going to fall for your inherent charm. There was another reason you were threatened, and it wasn't from Angus. The threat came from Sally."

  He shook his head. "No."

  "Um, yeah."

  "I'm telling you no."

  "Sally belonged to a group called the Greater Good Citizen's Government, an anonymous faction of nut job bigots. They want to clean up Vermont. Was it because you were gay? Or was there another reason? Sally Kane works in theater, which means she's probably used to gay men by now. So I don’t think that's it, Tad Mills. So what is it, Tad Mills?"

  He stared at her with pursed lips and a broiling anger in his eyes. "It's Thaddeus."

  "Thaddeus."

  He went to the treadmill and grabbed a towel and swabbed at his face and hair. He threw it back onto the machine and spread out his arms in a welcoming gesture. "Thaddeus Schoenbaum Millstein III at your service. Doesn’t look too pretty on a marquee so I shortened it. No crime there."

  "I agree," Allie said softy. "No crime there whatsoever. But there are people out there who don’t think that way. Thank God they’re few and far between, and thank God the government has checks and balances in place to ensure that people like that never go beyond whatever basement apartment they meet in on Friday nights. Sally was one of them. She threatened you because you’re Jewish. I suppose her day job working in the representative's office lent her a modicum of credibility, but it had another advantage: She was able to cajole the office into sponsoring bills that would serve the group’s bigoted ends. Like, for instance, banning non-union workers from the show. It was a petty bit of maliciousness perpetrated by a petty little mind. But I guess that's how those minds tend to work. Any opportunity to indulge their worst instincts. You were the only non-union guy down at the theater?"

  "No," he said calmly. "A couple of the stagehands I think were non-union."

  "Well, you want to make an omelet..."

  "I guess."

  "Why, Tad?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why did you lie?"

  He sat down on the couch and put his head in his hands. A small chuckle came from his throat. "You know," he said, picking his head up, "I've been asking myself that ever since it happened. And you know something? I have no idea. But I will say this: You go and be the only Jewish kid on the block, or the neighborhood, or in the class or the entire school. You grow up with your parents telling you that you have to hide yourself well. Don’t call yourself Thaddeus. That's a strange name. Tad is more American. Get rid of the Schoenbaum. And Millstein? Give it a haircut. And no mannerisms, son. They’ll give you away. No Yiddish. No inflections. Gay? Fine. Just as long as they don’t know the truth about you. Well, sweetheart, I say you oughta try growing up with that. Your parents telling you to be ashamed of your heritage. Try it once. Then come back here and ask me again why I lied. I lied because I don’t know any other way."

  "And that's why you didn’t go to the police in the first place?"

  He nodded. "You hate me now."

  "No, I don’t hate you."

  "Do you think I killed Sally Kane?"

  She couldn’t answer him; she could only pay reverence to the creeping coldness in her gut. Her stomach fluttered as she tried to speak.

  "You don’t have to answer," said Tad. "That look says it all. Well, I guess I have a pretty good reason."

  She looked around the apartment and saw a tie draped over a chair. She went over and picked it up. It was fine silk, and yet Tad had tossed it over a chair like an old coat. She threw the tie at him. "Tie this into a square knot for me."

  "A what?"

  "A square knot. Just do it."

  He stared at the tie for a moment, and then tied it into a perfect square knot.

  Allie smiled.

  "You care to share with the rest of the class?"

  "Where'd you learn to do that?"

  "Boy scouts."

  "I thought so."

  "Ok."

  "The killer tied a square knot. No one knew that except for Del, the cops, and me. And the killer."

  "So you do suspect me."

  "Tad, I did. I'll admit it. Not a hundred percent, but, say, eighty-five percent. But you understand what just happened? Had you killed that woman, you would've known what I was getting at when I tossed you the tie. You would have tied a granny knot or a bowline or you would've said you didn’t know. But you didn’t do any of those things. You tied a perfect square knot and I love you for it."

  "Well I love you too. So we're cool now?"

  She breathed a sigh of relief. "Very."

  "Would you like to have lunch?"

  "I would love to, but I have to run." She ran out the door and shouted, "Raincheck!"

  Then she got into her car and headed out toward Route 5. Destination: Teller Farms dairy.

  8.

  It looked like any other farm: several acres of nowhere running flat and well-groomed for as far as one could see with a rust-colored building situated far off to the right, and two silos like rocket ships standing steadfastly by its side.

  She saw a little man in jeans and a plaid shirt, attired irrespective of the weat
her, she thought. Out here for a long time. Acclimated. Older man. Takes his time. Farm owner.

  "Hi there," she called to him.

  Without a word, he walked slowly over to the fence where she stood.

  The man nodded. "Hello."

  "I was wondering if you could help me. I'm one of your milk delivery subscribers and I—"

  "Well!" said the man, suddenly displaying more than just a mere hint of emotion. "Nice to meet you!" He grabbed her hand and pumped it furiously.

  "Yes, ok, hello."

  "Which one are you?"

  "Pardon me?"

  "Which subscriber? What's your name?"

  "I'm Allie Griffin."

  "Ah, of course," he said, pointing to the side of his head."Allie Griffin of Green Street. Of course, how are you?" He continued shaking her hand.

  "Fine. Listen I'm going to need this hand for grabbing egg rolls."

  "Oh, hey, I'm sorry," he said, letting go.

  "You'll have to pardon me, but how did you know my address?"

  "We only have five subscribers. No, wait, four. One kicked out yesterday."

  "Four?"

  "Ayuh. Used to be five."

  "I don’t understand. There was a bevy of college kids at the farmers' market that day. No, not a bevy, this was a swarm. And you're telling me they only got five subscribers, and I was one of them?"

  "Ayuh. Looks that way."

  "Hoo-kay. Well, maybe you can help me. I need to know who delivers my milk."

  "Nothing wrong with the service?"

  "Nothing at all. Just curious."

  "Well, we got ourselves a few different vehicles for deliveries all over. We add the residential route to the commercial one, you see. The guys take turns driving."

  "I see. And is there any way I could find out who delivered to me on a particular day?"