Heaven Preserve Us: A Home Crafting Mystery (A Home Crafting Mystery)

by Cricket McRae

  By the time I finished, she'd leaned back in her chair and was examining the ceiling. Now she rubbed both hands over her face and sighed.

   

  "You're not kidding, are you? You know, just because you thought Walter didn't kill himself, and lo and behold it turned out you were right, it doesn't mean Philip's death has nefarious roots. For Pete's sake, the poor man died from botulism, not arsenic."

  "Barr thinks it's suspicious, too"

  "Great. So he can do something about it. You don't have to."

  "He's sick."

  "There are other people in the Cadyville Police Department"

  I tried to explain that Chief Maher and Detective Lane didn't have the most receptive attitudes in this situation.

  "This is not your problem," Meghan insisted in a dangerous voice.

  I held up my hands. "Okay, okay." But of course I didn't agree, not at all. Philip had grabbed my arm and as much as told me someone had poisoned him; Ruth had specifically asked me to find out where the offending beets had come from; and, last but not least, my boyfriend was in the hospital, possibly due to some twisted killer's plan.

  "You promise?"

  I smiled. "Stop worrying." I stood up. "I'm getting more tea and going downstairs to get a few things done before I go to bed. Do you want any?"

  She looked vaguely dissatisfied. "No, thanks."

  "Okay. See you in the morning."

  She said something, but by then I was already out in the front hallway, and I pretended not to hear her. Sue me. At least I didn't make any promises I couldn't keep.

   

  TWELVE

  OKAY, SO I HAD to admit I was a little spooked when I got to Heaven House that night. I'd worked for a couple of hours, then called and talked to Barr at the hospital for another. Finally, Meghan went to bed. Now it was late and dark, and the ugly hulk of the building squatted in the murky light filtering through the fog from the streetlight. It was even darker in the alley where I parked, but the only way I could get in was to "borrow" Meghan's key, and the only key she had happened to be for the back door. I was lucky she still had that; she didn't spend as much time at HH as she used to.

  Barr would've had a fit if he'd seen me wandering around town alone in the dark, using a key I wasn't even supposed to have to get into a building that could very well be a crime scene. Sneaking. And very, very carefully ignoring the fact that there seemed to be someone interested in noting my whereabouts and activities. My stomach clenched at the thought of my friendly stalker lurking in the fog-ridden shadows.

   

  I shoved the door open, stepped inside and shut it behind me. Locked it.

  Inside, it was pitch black, the kind of frightening absolute darkness that makes you entertain the idea, if only for a few moments, that maybe you've really, actually gone blind and will never see light again in your life. Smothering dark. Darkness so thick it coats your lungs, clogs your arteries ...

  My fumbling hand found the light switch and the overheads came on. It suddenly became easy to breathe again.

  Okay. So far, so good.

  The main room looked as boring and uninspired as ever. No chalk outlines on the floor. No police tape. No suspicion from anyone in authority that Philip's death wasn't completely accidental. How do you poison someone with botulism? Did someone simply hand the beets to him and hope?

  Was it possible his death really was an accident?

  Anything was possible. Some things were just unlikely. I don't know what it said about me that I found the idea of murder far more likely than an accident.

  Flipping on light switch after light switch, I made my way to the stairs that led to Philip's office and apartment on the second floor.

  On the first step I hesitated. There was no light in the stairwell. For some reason I was more inclined to abandon my little investigation now that I was faced with going up to Philip's office in the dark.

  Great, Sophie Mae. Way to act like a girl.

  Shaking my head at myself, I clomped up the steps, taking a certain amount of comfort in the noise my waffle-soled boots made on the worn wood. On the landing, I could just make out the outline of the doorway to Philip's office, a rectangle of light leaking out around the door.

   

  Wait a minute. Light? Inside Philip's office? The carpeted hallway silenced my footsteps as I crept to the office door and ever so slowly pushed it open.

  There was no one in the room.

  I let out a whoosh of breath, allowing the muscles along my shoulders to unclench a little. Someone had left the light on, that was all. The desk was still askew from when the paramedics had removed Philip to the ambulance, and a dark stain streaked the wall behind it.

  The place smelled terrible. I maneuvered my way to the window, opened the blinds and twisted the paint-encrusted handle of the double-hung sash and pulled up. Outside, the fog put the street scene into soft-focus, giving it an almost romantic quality. The damp winter air drifted in, and I bent to take a deep breath of it before getting down to business.

  Two black metal file cabinets hunched in the corner. I pulled out the top drawer of the first and flipped through the paperwork, then moved on to the next. Grant applications here. Foundationrelated information there. Correspondence ... here. I quickly worked my way through the official Heaven House files and found nary a threat. Closing the last drawer, I considered my options. Eyed the desk for a moment.

  In the second drawer I discovered still more files. None of them contained threatening letters. But hang on-there were other places to keep files. I switched on Philip's computer. It was new and fast and the operating system loaded in no time.

   

  Unfortunately, his computer was password protected.

  Crap.

  I got up and paced a few times in the narrow aisle between desk and file cabinets. Stopped and looked out the window, thinking.

  I had no clue what Philip might choose as a password. I just didn't know the guy well enough.

  Movement down the block caught my attention. Someone crossed to the other side of the street, deep in the shadows. The figure jogged down to the vehicles parked across from Heaven House. It was a man, and he wore what looked like an old army pea coat and a funky knit hat with long tasseled earflaps. He stopped behind a truck. Didn't come back out. Then a pale face slowly edged around the cab of the pickup.

  The guy was looking straight at me.

  My head jerked back from the window. Was that Allen? I peeked around the sash again, only to see his retreating back. I seemed to have scared him as much as he scared me. Still, fresh air had lost its charm. Down came the window, quickly followed by the blinds.

  It was just some guy who couldn't sleep, out for a walk. Right?

  Back at Philip's desk, I parked my posterior in his fancy ergonomic chair. Leaned back. Considered whether I could sleep here all night instead of trundling out to my truck in the alley in the dark.

  The chair was comfy, but not that comfy.

  Absently, I glanced at the post-its Philip had stuck around the perimeter of his monitor. Call Gloria. Dry cleaning. Marlboros. Paycheck to Maryjake. Snickerdoodle.

  Snickerdoodle?

  Looked like a password to me. I entered it and waited expectantly.

   

  Nada.

  Wait a minute. One post-it was wrinkled and smudged, like it had been there a long time. And how many smokers needed to remind themselves to pick up more cigarettes?

  None, that's how many. I squinted. That wasn't an ess at the end of Marlboro. It was a five.

  I typed in Marlboro5.

  Bingo.

  Feeling pretty darned pleased with myself, I clicked around and found more of the same information I'd discovered in the hard copy files: grants, foundations business, etc. I felt kind of bad as I opened his email. There were bound to be some secrets in there I didn't want to know.

  At least I didn't want to admit I wanted to know. And, I argued with myse
lf, whatever I stumbled into might help to find his murderer. Even Philip would have agreed that was worth a little invasion of privacy, right?

  But I didn't have a chance to invade much. Right there in his email program was a "folder" he'd named Mean People.

  It would have been cute if someone hadn't killed him.

  Only two emails occupied the folder. A quick scan revealed each contained a certain amount of vitriol. I clicked the print button in the email program.

  Headlights illuminated the other side of the window, and I glanced at the clock on the computer. Almost one o'clock. I sighed and began a more careful reading of the first email in the Mean People folder.

  The sender's address was ad@caladiaacres.com. I couldn't tell who it was from exactly, but Tootie's favorite nurse, Ann Dunning, fit the initials. If she wasn't the one who'd sent it, it wouldn't be hard to find out who did.

   

  Once again, I couldn't help but shake my head at Philip's tendency to make promises and not follow through. He'd agreed to put together a visitation program for some of the nursing home residents who didn't have family or many local friends. The idea was to tap into the Cadyville High School's requirement that seniors perform a certain number of hours of community service before being allowed to graduate. It was a great idea, and should have worked. But once again, he'd dropped the ball; the Caladia Acres participants had been disappointed, and several students at the high school had to scramble in order to graduate on time.

  The program had been salvaged at the last moment, from what I could tell, but only because whoever had sent the email to Philip had stepped in and taken over. And boy, was she, at least I thought it was a she, peeved at having to do so. Her anger snapped and snarled throughout the email as she outlined Philip's various failings. She ended by saying she planned to pass on details about his ineptitude to the Heaven Foundation Board.

  "They should know how ineffective the head of their community center in Cadyville is, even if he is a member of the precious Heaven family." Especially since Philip was a Heaven, I thought.

  I frowned. The printer hadn't made a peep. I checked to make sure it was on and had paper. Tried again. It wasn't doing a dang thing. Fine. I went back and forwarded the email from Caladia Acres to my Winding Road email address and opened the second threat.

  This one was less businesslike than the first and had a shrill tone to it. Apparently Philip had been answering the Helpline just after starting it, and a runaway teenaged girl had called. Instead of giving her the 800 number that would enable her to talk to someone who specialized in runaways and would help her find a place to stay, contact her parents for free, or help her get back home, Philip had taken it upon himself to advise her personally. She had apparently told him how much she hated living at home.

   

  He'd had the audacity to tell her he thought she'd be better on her own.

  Well, this girl, Lisa Koller, was seventeen and headstrong. The email was from Lisa's mother, Mandy Koller, infuriated that Philip would say such a thing. Lisa's father had recently died, and Lisa had a mad-on at the world. She'd gone back home the next day. Again. She'd actually been staying with friends, as she always did when she wanted to punish her mom, only to throw Philip's "advice" in Mandy's face for weeks.

  I wondered how bad Mom really was. The email was well-written, no spelling or grammar mistakes, and simply, if vehemently, accused Philip of overstepping his bounds. She sarcastically thanked him for giving Lisa more ammunition to use against her. And finally, she informed him that she was going to report his abuse of the Heaven House Helpline to the Heaven Foundation.

  Sounded familiar.

  It didn't look like Philip had responded to either of these emails. I forwarded the second one to my Winding Road address, wondering whether both senders had indeed contacted the foundation. Then I erased my tracks in the "sent mail" folder.

  Car headlights washed the drawn blinds once again as I shut down Philip's computer. A few people must be moving around Cadyville at this late hour, keeping odd work or social hours, but the bars and restaurants had been closed since midnight. I chided myself for being paranoid, for having the ego to think the sporadic traffic in my sleepy little town could have anything at all to do with me personally, and shut off the overhead light.

   

  Got pretty dark again after that.

  Out in the hallway, I felt my way toward the stairwell. There was Philip's apartment, right there, at the other end of the hallway. It would be locked, right? I couldn't help it, though. I tried the door.

  The knob turned easily in my hand. Uh, oh. Ethical dilemma. But when would I get another chance to look around where Philip lived? When might I be able to check out where he-and Barr-must have been poisoned? My bone-crushing weariness evaporated. In the dark, my shoulders straightened a fraction. Not much of a dilemma after all.

  I walked in and flipped the light switch by the door. Sconces along the walls illuminated the ceiling, painted the same sage tone as the walls. A huge-screen TV dominated one corner, and a bank of dark brown leather furniture curved in front of it. Thick Turkish rugs punctuated and softened the beautifully grained cherry wood floor. Recessed lighting accentuated the modern paintings on the walls. I ventured closer and peered at them. The artists were just names to me. Still, I bet they were quite expensive; everything in the place had that feel.

  The kitchen must have been completely redone before Philip moved in: slab granite counters, saltillo tile floors, maple cabinets, and a sink you could take a bath in. I continued, almost against my will, into his bedroom and bathroom. Expensive fittings, marble and fine linens. Philip had generally opted for casual clothes. Lots of cotton and wool. Jeans. Now that I thought about it, though, he'd dressed more Town and Country than LL Bean.

   

  This was the abode of a man with a ton of money. What the heck was he doing in Cadyville, running community programs?

  Maryjake had an obvious crush on Philip. Why? He may have had money, but he didn't have much in the way of class. Had he returned the interest?

  Back to basics. Not a lot of food left in the kitchen-either he didn't eat at home much or else the Health Department had stripped out the remaining food for testing.

  A thought struck me-could there still be a danger of botulism poisoning in here?

  That did it. I'd looked enough. Trotting back toward the door, though, I saw a beautiful roll-top desk, and paused. I mean, he was dead, right? What did he care?

  The articulated top rose, smooth as silk, exposing a series of cubby holes and drawers. God, I'd always wanted a desk like that one. Rummaging through the neatly organized paper, I discovered a notice from Cadyville Electric. The bar of red ink along the top grabbed my attention, as it was intended to do. They were getting ready to shut off the electricity at Heaven House. Last notice.

  Under it was a shut-off notice from the gas company. And a first notice of non-payment from the phone company. What the heck? Why wasn't Heaven House paying its bills? And why were the notices in Philip's apartment instead of his office? Or in Maryjake's desk downstairs? I knew she wrote out some of the Heaven House checks, and then gave them to Philip to sign. I'd seen her do it. Maybe the utility bills were handled differently. Sent to the main foundation office, for example.

   

  Only, they hadn't been.

  Then I found a bank statement. Heaven House had only four hundred dollars in the checking account. There should have been more. I squinched my forehead. Maybe the foundation sent a monthly stipend. Maybe ... I shook my head. I didn't know what to think.

  And why were the Heaven House bank statements in his apartment as well?

  Chewing on what I'd learned so far, I shut off the lights and locked the apartment door behind me. Unsure of what I'd expected to find, or what to do with what I had discovered, I had an odd sense of making progress.

  Hopelessly lost, but making good time, as the bumper sticker says.

&n
bsp;  

  THIRTEEN

  I BELIEVED RUTH HADN'T canned the beets that killed Philip. I believed Philip had been threatened in a way that made him afraid, something beyond a threat to report him to the foundation. A physical threat. Something dire enough that he actually inquired about how to take out a restraining order. A threat from someone he didn't want to name. Because he didn't want to get them in trouble? Because he was so afraid of them? Because he wasn't sure who they were? No, not the last one. He knew who his killer was, and would have told me, or someone else, if he hadn't died from the botulism poisoning so quickly.

  Seemed a risky proposition for his murderer, but the gamble had obviously paid off.

  The late notices and unusually low bank balance at Heaven House were odd, but not that surprising. Philip's inefficiency was mind-blowing. I could easily see him grabbing the mail on the way in, taking it up to his apartment so he could drop his coat or change his shoes or use the bathroom, and leaving it there instead of taking it over to his office. He wasn't a man used to consequences, and a few late payment notices would likely leave him not only unfazed, but oblivious. As for the bank balance, if he were the one in charge of the banking then the same thing applied. On the other hand, if Maryjake was involved with the banking, it made very little sense.

   

  Early Friday morning, I dragged my tired carcass out of bed and padded downstairs. Stumbling into the kitchen, I found Meghan eating a muffin that looked like it was made out of wet sawdust. At least she'd slathered it with some of Jude's tasty-looking apricot jelly.

  I shook my head at the notion of joining the fiber fest, opened the refrigerator and reached for the bacon. It was a bacon and eggs kind of day. And fried potatoes. A woman needs her sustenance, if not her sleep.