by Jana DeLeon
“It’s probably for the best. After all, I’m only here for the summer.”
“I guess so.”
The baby started to scream and this time, it was an unhappy scream. Peaches checked her watch, then removed her from the swing. “She’s hungry. I best get her home before she yells down the neighborhood. It was nice talking to you. If you hear anything being in that big house alone, give me a call. I’ll send Brandon over with a shotgun.”
“Or a flyswatter?”
She laughed. “That too. See you later.”
I watched as she secured the baby in a stroller and headed up the sidewalk.
Gail was having an affair.
It didn’t sound right, but I supposed one never really knew about another person unless you were standing on top of them twenty-four hours a day.
Still, it was a workable angle. One I would offer up to Ida Belle and Gertie.
They’d know if it was a possibility.
Chapter 9
My chat with Peaches put me behind, so by the time I’d showered and made it downstairs, Gertie had already put the casserole in the oven to heat it up a bit, and Ida Belle had retrieved whiskey glasses and was pouring us all a round of Coke and the hard stuff.
Gertie looked at Ida Belle and shook her head. “Our mothers are rolling over in their graves. Whiskey at lunchtime.”
Ida Belle raised one eyebrow. “If our mothers are rolling over every time we do something on their list of things a lady shouldn’t do, they’ve been flopping like flounder since they were buried.”
Gertie perked up. “That’s true enough. Make mine a double.”
“I’ll make it a single until you’ve eaten and we’ve talked turkey. If you want to spend the afternoon sloshing around in whiskey, you can do it after the business portion of the day.”
“Fine, a single then, but I’m chasing it with a beer.”
“Sounds like a great idea,” I said and opened the refrigerator. “Ida Belle?”
“Make it three,” she said.
I grabbed the beers and sat them on the table. Gertie pulled the casserole out of the oven and put it in the middle of the table next to a basket of French bread. I grabbed plates and we all dug in.
“Okay,” I said after downing a big bite of the incredibly awesome casserole. “I think the first thing we need to do is cover everything we know about the Bishops. Every time we get into something, their personal lives matter. So give me the skinny.”
“Gail is a local girl,” Gertie said. “Her parents retired and moved to Arizona. It’s supposed to be better for arthritis, I think. Gail bought their house from them and still lives there today. She runs a charity in New Orleans that helps the homeless and the disabled acquire jobs and housing. I’ve made donations but never been to their office. My understanding is that it’s a fairly decent-sized outfit.”
Ida Belle nodded. “Twenty full-time employees, is what I heard. They get grant money from the federal government and the state, and of course, there’s the usual list of private donors and events to raise money. Gail is—was very clever with money and the paperwork for grants and such. I worry that they’ll have a hard time finding someone to run the organization as well as she did.”
“What about her and Nolan?” I asked. “High school sweethearts?”
“Gail and Nolan met two years ago at one of the charity events she hosted,” Gertie said.
“Was she married before?” I asked.
“Yes. That one was her high school sweetheart,” Gertie said. “And a big mistake. That boy was always trouble, but Gail thought she could save him. You know how some teen girls can be.”
I didn’t have any idea how teen girls could be, but I figured I’d take Gertie’s word for it. She had years of teaching experience to back up her opinion.
“It was just when she was a teen,” Ida Belle said. “She had a few more unfortunate attempted rescues later on before she finally threw in the towel. We figured she’d decided to give it up until she met Nolan.”
“Was Nolan born unable to walk or was that some sort of accident?” I asked.
“Nolan was already in the wheelchair when Gail met him,” Gertie said. “I believe it was the result of a car accident a few years before.”
“Drunk driver,” Ida Belle said. “Not Nolan. The other guy.”
“Yes, that’s it,” Gertie said. “Anyway, Nolan volunteered to speak at group meetings about learning to live in the wheelchair and the transitions one had to make both professionally and personally.”
“So he wasn’t dependent on Gail?” I asked.
“Not completely,” Ida Belle said. “He’s an editor or proofer…business papers, I think, or maybe law briefs. He’s told me about it before, but I confess that the topic bored me completely so I tuned him out. Anyway, I think before the accident, he worked in corporate America in some similar capacity. But the editing or whatever, he could do at home, so it was a better option than commuting each day, although it’s probably considerably less money. I think the work is contract, so not always available.”
“What about physically?” I asked. “I assume he was living alone before he married Gail?”
“He was living in an apartment in New Orleans,” Gertie said. “I think he had some sort of aide that came to help him with things several times a week. But I remember him saying that he had tried to become independent quickly because there hadn’t been much insurance money and he couldn’t afford to continue the service once it was gone.”
“So he got a settlement from the wreck, but medical bills and the health aide probably ate it up quickly,” I said.
“Probably so,” Gertie said. “It does seem that everything to do with health care is so expensive these days. Anyway, Gail told me once that he was quite capable in most areas. They modified her home to accommodate the wheelchair and that helped tremendously. The only problem was his strength. Ever since the accident, he had bouts of fatigue and she said he couldn’t lift himself when those happened.”
“So he can’t live completely independently, at least not all of the time,” I said, and sighed. “That sucks.”
Ida Belle nodded. “Just when his life had reached a new normal, another tragedy throws him back into a tailspin. He’s more capable now, of course, since more time has passed, but it’s still a huge blow.”
“Did Gail have money?” I asked.
“Not to speak of,” Ida Belle said. “Her parents are still alive and live on a small retirement. Gail spent most of her savings buying their home. She was a frugal woman but I don’t think she drew a large salary.”
“Well,” I said, “when a woman dies, the first suspect is usually the husband, but I don’t see the point in this case. No money, so no motive. In fact, Nolan is worse off now than before.”
Gertie nodded. “Not to mention that unless he developed wings and flew upstairs and through that window, he couldn’t have managed it physically.”
“So we have this notoriously nice woman,” I said, “who helps the disabled and homeless and marries a man in a wheelchair, and yet someone killed her.”
“It doesn’t make much sense, does it?” Gertie asked.
“Not at the moment,” I agreed, “but clearly there’s a reason, because she’s dead. When I went jogging this morning, I ran into Peaches Dugas at the park. I assume you know her?”
“Of course,” Gertie said. “Peaches was such a pleasant baby, and she turned into such a nice young woman.”
“She was in the General Store yesterday when Nolan tripped Celia,” I said.
“So of course she wanted to talk about Gail,” Ida Belle said.
I nodded. “She said the same thing you did—that Gail was super nice and she had no idea why someone would want to kill her. But I could tell there was something she wasn’t saying.”
Gertie stopped eating and leaned forward. “Did you get it out of her?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’m trained to get information out of people.”
“Ha,” Ida Belle said. “Well, military methods…”
“I could hardly torture her on the playground,” I said. “Besides, you get much better information if people offer it up themselves.”
“So what was the offering?” Gertie asked.
“She said she’d heard Gail was having an affair.”
Ida Belle and Gertie both stared, neither one saying a word. Finally, Gertie shook her head. “I don’t think so,” Gertie said.
“But you can’t be sure,” I pointed out.
“No one can be sure,” Gertie said, “unless they’re speaking of themselves, but it doesn’t fit her at all. Who told Peaches that story?”
“A friend of hers who cleans house for Florence Thompson. I didn’t get the friend’s name. Peaches said Florence told her friend.”
“The friend is Valerie Guidry,” Ida Belle said. “She cleans for several widowed women.”
“Is she reliable?” I asked.
“Oh, I wouldn’t let her organize my closet or trust her to remember too many things without writing them down,” Gertie said, “but I’d say she’s reliable as far as repeating simple gossip, and I’ve never known her to make things up.”
“What about Florence?” I asked.
“Florence is an old gasbag,” Ida Belle said.
Gertie frowned. “That’s not polite. Florence has had a rough time of it since her husband died.”
“Not as rough as her husband had while he was alive,” Ida Belle said. “Admit it. The woman is an old sourpuss and quite happy being that way.”
“She does tend to dwell on the negative side of things,” Gertie said.
“I could have guessed that based on that slightly annoyed and consummately bored expression she’s always wearing,” I said. “But is she reliable when it comes to gossip?”
“Oh, I should think so,” Ida Belle said, “especially the negative kind. That would be right up her alley.”
“So you don’t think any of the three people I mentioned would make up that story and all of them have probably relayed it correctly, but neither of you buys it.”
“I wonder where Florence heard it,” Gertie said.
“Probably at that knitting group she has,” Ida Belle said. “Five impossibly depressing old biddies, knitting the most horrible baby blankets and always shoving them at some young mother, expecting them to fawn over cheap, scratchy yarn in whatever color was on clearance.”
“I’m afraid that’s true,” Gertie said. “I always use the finest yarn for babies. Their skin is so sensitive, but the pretty colors aren’t cheap.”
“Well, it’s not much to go on, and will probably amount to nothing,” I said, “but it’s the only thing we’ve got to pursue right now. Unless you guys have heard anything else?”
“Not yet,” Ida Belle said. “Myrtle is still trying to get her hands on some paperwork but Carter hasn’t put anything down. And Marie is still over at the Bishops’ house with Nolan. She’ll likely be there all day.”
Gertie nodded. “Marie won’t leave until she’s certain Nolan is in decent shape.”
“Does he have any family?” I asked.
“I’ve never heard him mention any,” Gertie said. “Of course, I assume Gail’s parents have been notified and are on their way, but given that their only child was murdered, I don’t know that they’ll be much help to anyone.”
“I imagine not,” I said. “So…we finish lunch, then try to convince Florence to give up her source?”
Ida Belle reached for the whiskey bottle. “I think we’ll all have that double now.”
* * *
Half a bottle of whiskey and two-thirds of a casserole later, we were all in the living room, stretched out like cats sunning, except there was no sun, and none of us had the flexibility of a cat.
“I shouldn’t have had that third helping,” I said.
“Or the fourth,” Ida Belle pointed out.
“No fair counting,” I said.
“Then I won’t comment on the five pieces of bread you had,” Ida Belle said.
“Hey, I ran five miles this morning,” I argued. “What exercise did you have?”
“I cleaned out my pantry,” Gertie said. “Then I cooked.”
“I lifted up that bottle of whiskey and walked out to the street to get into Gertie’s car,” Ida Belle said. “I’ll exercise tonight. I’m just getting my muscles warmed up right now.”
“Your stomach muscles, maybe,” I said.
“The worst part is that even after all that whiskey, I’m still completely sober,” Gertie complained.
“The casserole and bread soaked it all up,” Ida Belle said.
I sat up a bit, trying to work up the desire to get completely upright. “We have to go talk to Florence.” Then an idea hit me. “Or maybe you two should go. She doesn’t really know me, but I’m going to guess she wouldn’t like me. She’ll probably be more willing to talk without me there.”
“She doesn’t like me, either,” Ida Belle said.
“You told her she looked like Grumpy Cat,” Gertie said.
“She does.”
I grinned. “Maybe Gertie should call her…ask a question about knitting. Give her some compliment on her work and then eventually get around to talking about Gail. That would be standard operating procedure here, right?”
Ida Belle looked over at Gertie. “She’s getting good at this.”
“You two just want to push this off on me,” Gertie said.
“So my idea isn’t a good one?” I asked.
“Hand me my phone,” Gertie grumbled.
I grabbed her phone off the coffee table and tossed it to her. She made the call and we proceeded to listen to one side of the conversation.
“Hi, Florence, this is Gertie. How are you doing…Yes, the humidity has been bothering my dry skin as well. Look, the reason I called was to ask about the pattern you used for the cap you made for the Spencer baby…Yes, the orange one. A cousin of mine who lives up north is expecting…I don’t know how people live in that cold, either… Maybe you’re right. They might all be a bit touched.”
Gertie rolled her eyes.
“I see. From the pattern website you used for the shawl. That’s excellent. I’ll print it out. Thank you so much. I really loved the way that cap turned out, and although I don’t approve of where my cousin lives, naturally, I figure her baby shouldn’t have to suffer with a cold head just because of his mother’s foolish choices.”
I looked over at Ida Belle and grinned. Gertie was really laying it on thick.
All of a sudden, Gertie’s eyes widened and she gave us a thumbs-up.
“Yes, of course. I’ll be happy to make a blanket for the charity drive. I’m surprised no one has contacted me already. Usually Gail did that…I suppose you’ve heard. Simply horrible. I can’t imagine…even with good locks and an alarm, I worry about such things. I don’t suppose the police have any idea who would want to hurt her. I haven’t a clue. Such a nice woman and a spotless reputation. So rare these days.”
There was a longer than usual pause as Gertie listened. I could hear Florence’s voice pick up in volume and speed but couldn’t make out what she was saying.
“Really? That’s most incredible. I would never have thought. No, of course things like this didn’t happen in our day. I suppose whoever told you was quite certain? And someone who gets things right—not like old Mrs. Wainwright who confuses everyone with brown hair. Oh! Yes, that makes all the difference. How distressing. I’ll pray for him, of course. Yes, thank you so much, Florence. You’ve been a lifesaver with the pattern.”
Gertie hung up the phone and looked at us, frowning.
“Well?” Ida Belle said. “Don’t drag it out, woman. Who told that old gasbag that Gail was having an affair?”
“Nolan,” Gertie said.
I sat upright. “What?”
Even Ida Belle looked surprised by that announcement.
Gertie nodded. “The same day Fortune
met them at the general store, Florence said she overheard Nolan on his cell phone. He was behind the Catholic church during one of the clothes drives that Gail was assisting with. Florence went out to get some air and before she realized the conversation was private, she heard him say he feared his wife was having an affair.”
“Bull,” Ida Belle said. “She probably saw him outside on the phone and deliberately went out there to see what he was saying.”
“Probably,” Gertie agreed. “But that point aside, do we think she’s telling the truth?”
“I think so,” Ida Belle said. “Florence loves gossip, but she’s always careful to not be the one starting it. She wouldn’t stick her neck out as the creator unless she was sure of what she’d heard.”
“So we take as fact that Nolan thought his wife was having an affair,” I said. “Do we think that is true, or could Nolan have been misreading something?”
Ida Belle shook her head. “That’s certainly a possibility from our perspective because we don’t know why Nolan came to that conclusion. He could have made a mistake. Given even a small dependence on Gail, I imagine he would have been scared by the thought of their marriage dissolving.”
“Not to mention, he might actually love her,” Gertie said drily.
Ida Belle waved a hand in dismissal. “Love is a secondary consideration when one can’t live independently. An important one, of course, but probably not the biggest worry Nolan had if Gail were to leave him for another man.”
“So where do we go from here?” I asked. “Trying to figure out who she was having an affair with seems premature since we don’t know for certain that was the case.”
“But if she wasn’t having an affair,” Ida Belle said, “then we’re back to having no motive.”
“If she were having an affair, what would be the motive?” I asked. “Assuming the man she was having the affair with wanted to be with her, why would he kill her? There’s no monetary benefit for him.”
“Maybe she broke it off with him,” Ida Belle said.
“And he figured if he couldn’t have her then no one would?” I asked. “I suppose that’s possible. I’ve been watching those forensics shows and people commit the dumbest crimes over affairs.”