Paper-Thin Alibi

by Hughes, Mary Ellen

  Chapter 5

  Feeling in need of TLC, Jo called Russ when she got home that evening. The craft show had gradually recovered from the crisis caused by Linda, with most of the vendors in building 10 returning to their business, though in somber moods. Ina Mae had lingered, claiming she had nothing whatsoever to do the rest of the day, and Jo, though sure that was a huge exaggeration, had been grateful.

  The distraction of newly arrived customers who had no idea of what had occurred earlier and therefore were in full, carefree, fair mode, had helped. But during her quiet drive home, all the distressing thoughts Jo had pushed aside came creeping back, making her long for a few soothing words.

  Russ, she knew, was on duty that night, and Jo hoped she’d catch him at a slow time. She was delighted, therefore, when, after waiting on hold for several minutes, she heard his voice, brisk and businesslike though it was.

  “Morgan here.”

  “Hi, Morgan. McAllister here.”

  “Ah.” His tone immediately softened. “That new guy at the desk is going to have to cue me in a lot better. How’d it go today?”

  Jo sighed. “Got a minute?” When Russ acknowledged that he did, she spilled out the whole, disturbing story.

  Russ, after offering a few consolatory phrases, zeroed in with his usual perceptiveness on the one thing that was bothering Jo the most, though she’d tried to minimize it—to herself as well as to him.

  “The woman who gave you the evil eye, did she say anything to you?”

  “No. We all simply went back to work. I didn’t see her the rest of the day. Now that I think of it, I probably should have, since her booth is only two down from mine. I can’t say for sure if she was there afterward or not.”

  “What about that candy? What happened to it?”

  Jo had to think. “Most of it, I think, was spilled from the box, and probably got trampled from everyone that rushed to help. I remember a security guard showing up at Linda’s booth later on. He seemed to be packing her jewelry away and locking it up. I suppose he might have cleaned up the candy. I don’t remember seeing the box or the pink wrapping anymore.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Why?”

  “Nothing. Just wondered about it. So, did this very unfortunate event have an impact on sales the rest of the day?”

  “Not terribly,” Jo admitted, aware of her torn feelings about that. Why did she feel the need to somehow suffer because of Linda’s illness? Would she be happier if in fact business had been awful? “Things eventually returned to normal, and Ina Mae and I made several very good sales.”

  “Great. Word must be spreading about the fantastic McAllister designs.”

  Jo smiled. “I don’t know about that.” She really didn’t, but she liked hearing Russ say it.

  “One of my officers said his wife bought something of yours yesterday. He seemed impressed enough with it to not even grumble about the cost.”

  Jo laughed. “She must have bought something with gold. Tell him if it makes him feel any better that the value will only go up.”

  “I will. But not when he’s unwrapping his PB&J, the only lunch he can afford for a while.”

  “Oh, come now!” Jo said, still smiling. “I couldn’t have made that big of a dent in their budget.”

  “Well, put it this way—” Russ stopped, then asked Jo to hold on. When he came back on the line he said, “Sorry, gotta go. Something’s come up.”

  Jo hung up, disappointed to have their conversation end, but happy she’d at least had a few moments to talk with Russ. She went to bed that night feeling better than when she’d come home, and looking forward to her final day at Michicomi.

  The next day, Sunday, Jo pulled up to the craft fair and was climbing out of her Toyota when Gabe Stubbins came up to her.

  “I’ve been watching for you,” he explained. “I wanted to tell you myself. There’s been some bad news.”

  “What?” Jo closed her car door behind her. The look on Gabe’s face told her this was serious.

  “Linda Weeks died last night.”

  “Died! Oh, gosh.” Jo leaned back against her car, staggered by the unexpected turn. She looked up at Gabe. “What was it? Her heart? A stroke?”

  “I don’t know. No one seems to have any details. I just thought you’d want to know before you came in.”

  Jo thought of the leatherworks woman who seemed to want to blame Jo for everything. But why? Could an argument like the one she’d had with Linda cause a fatal reaction? Jo couldn’t believe it. But that didn’t mean others might not.

  “How are people taking it?” she asked Gabe.

  “Stunned, mostly. Still coping with the news. You know how it goes, though. Scoundrels turn into saints on passing, so there’s a lot of grief being expressed by people who could barely spare two words for her before.”

  Jo nodded. She’d have to deal with her own mixed feelings. She felt shocked and sad for Linda, but at the same time hypocritical for the sadness.

  “Ready to go in?”

  “Yes. I assume the festival continues as usual?”

  Gabe nodded. “The show, as they say, must go on.”

  Gabe walked beside her through building 10, and Jo realized this respected, long-time Michicomi regular was in effect giving her his stamp of approval. Jo appreciated that, especially when they came to the leather-goods booth where the woman who had glared so fervently at her the day before worked busily at straightening handbags on a wall shelf.

  “ ’Morning, Amy,” Gabe called, and she turned around with a smile, which faded as she spotted Jo beside Gabe. But Amy pulled herself together and returned his greeting cordially. Gabe escorted Jo to her booth, then said, “Don’t worry. Everyone just needs a little time to get their heads together.”

  He turned back to his own booth, and Jo got down to work getting ready for business. She checked her clock: 9:45. The gates would open in fifteen minutes. She and Ina Mae had sold quite a few larger pieces the day before, and Jo needed to unpack replacements for them. She was crouching over her boxes on the floor when a man leaned over her counter and asked, “Mrs. McAllister?”

  Jo looked up to see a mustached, pinstripe-suited man standing somewhat uneasily next to a taller, square-jawed man in a brown and tan uniform.

  “Mrs. McAllister, I’m Julian Honeycutt, and this is Sheriff Franklin. He’d like to speak with you. Would you please come to my office?”

  “Oh! Right now?” Jo asked. “The festival is on the verge of opening up.”

  “I just have a few questions,” the sheriff said, adding, “if you don’t mind.”

  “No, of course not,” Jo said, understanding the need but feeling, at the same time, pulled in two directions. She quickly relocked her cases and stepped out of the booth to walk silently between the two men to the Michicomi main offices, two buildings down. Julian Honeycutt ushered Jo and Sheriff Franklin into a small room with a metal desk and two chairs, offered coffee, which they both declined, then excused himself.

  “Mrs. McAllister,” the sheriff began, pulling out a small notebook from his tan shirt pocket and slipping on a pair of half-moon reading glasses. He had very dark, thick eyebrows, Jo noticed, much darker than his hair, which had considerable gray running through it. His dark eyebrows furrowed together, either in concentration or displeasure, Jo couldn’t tell which. “You are aware,” he asked, “that Linda Weeks, the woman who had the booth directly across from yours, has died?”

  “Yes, I heard it this morning. Just a few minutes ago. I’m still quite shocked. She was much too young, and, as far as I could tell anyway, perfectly healthy.”

  Franklin looked at her over his glasses, an action that always made Jo feel uneasy from the air of skepticism it projected, though what there was to be skeptical about she had no idea.

  “I understand you were acquainted with the deceased, before this craft fair. Can you tell me how?”

  So the sheriff had been talking to others already, people who had probably reporte
d on the acrimonious exchange between them. Not that it could have had anything to do with her death, Jo was convinced, but obviously he was leading up to that.

  “Linda and I knew each other a couple years ago in New York, where we both placed our jewelry with many of the same consigners.”

  “You were friends?”

  “We were friendly, at one time. That changed.”

  “Into enemies?”

  “Enemies? No, I wouldn’t use that strong of a word, Sheriff. We simply didn’t get along. Look, I know you’re probably aware that Linda and I had a big blowup, but it was hours before she fell ill. I really can’t see that it had anything to do with her death.”

  “Mrs. McAllister, yesterday morning you gave Ms. Weeks a box of candy, is that correct?”

  “I didn’t give it to her. The box was on my counter but was addressed to her. I simply carried it over.”

  “Is that right?” Another over-the-glasses look. “You didn’t buy the candy and bring it with you?”

  “No, it was sitting there when I arrived. Why?”

  “Well”—Franklin flipped a few pages of his notebook back—“witnesses saw you give it to her, and she seemed pleased to get it. I thought perhaps it was some sort of peace offering from you?”

  “No, not at all. As I said, it was simply sitting on my counter, obviously delivered to the wrong booth. She seemed to think it was from Jack Guilfoil, but I didn’t see that name, or any other besides Linda’s, on the wrapping.”

  “I see.” He referred back to his notebook. “So you weren’t trying to patch things up between you?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Then you still hold a lot of grievance against Ms. Weeks?”

  “Up to the time she collapsed, she and I were not on good terms, no, though I am sorry this happened to her.”

  “You said you two had been friendly for a period in New York. Did that include meals together?”

  Meals? Where was this going? “Yes, we met a few times for lunches.”

  “Only lunches?”

  “I guess there were one or two dinners with others, plus a few larger get-togethers that had food. Why, Sheriff? What does that have to do—”

  “So you’ve eaten with Ms. Weeks. You were aware of what she could and could not eat?”

  “You mean, if she was dieting?” Jo asked, puzzled. “I don’t know. I guess I remember once or twice she mentioned watching her weight, skipping desserts, that kind of thing. What—”

  “I’m talking about her food allergies. You knew about them?”

  “Allergies? No, I didn’t know she had any allergies.”

  “She never mentioned that she could have severe reactions to certain foods?” The sheriff had pulled off his glasses by this time, and his eyes—which were very dark brown—watched her unblinkingly.

  “No, she didn’t,” Jo said. “Don’t tell me she was allergic to chocolate. But if she was, why would she—”

  “She wasn’t allergic to chocolate, Mrs. McAllister. She was allergic to peanuts. Highly allergic, it seems.”

  “But the candy was vanilla creams.”

  “You knew that?”

  “Yes, because Linda said so.” Jo finally realized, with shock, that she was being looked at with suspicion. “Linda said something about Jack Guilfoil remembering that vanilla creams were her favorite. Have you spoken with Jack Guilfoil about this?”

  “Mr. Guilfoil is recovering from surgery in a Cleveland hospital at the moment, for a burst appendix that occurred two days ago.”

  “Oh. Then I suppose he didn’t actually send the candy.”

  “Highly unlikely. Or that he was able to inject ground peanut paste into each of the vanilla creams in the box.”

  “Ground peanuts!” Jo stared at the sheriff, grappling with what that meant. He stared back at her, waiting. But waiting for what? Jo’s mind raced. So Linda didn’t die from a weak heart or a blood clot to the brain. She died from an allergic reaction to peanuts—an extreme reaction—which someone knew would happen, and caused to happen. Someone who wanted Linda dead.

  “Sheriff,” Jo said, mustering up as much firmness to her voice as she could, “I disliked Linda but not enough to want her dead, believe me.”

  The sheriff remained silent a moment, then said, “I wonder if you can explain to me, then, why Ms. Weeks would say”—he searched through his notebook pages until he found what he wanted—“when she was still able to gasp out a few words, ‘She poisoned me.’ Ms. Weeks then, apparently, pointed toward you.”

  Chapter 6

  Jo returned to building 10, shaken. Shoppers had flooded the place once more, and she hurried to finish the booth preparations that Julian Honeycutt and Sheriff Franklin had interrupted. She worked on automatic pilot, though, as her mind grappled with all that had bombarded it in the space of a few minutes: first that Linda had died; then that her death wasn’t from natural causes as Jo had assumed, but from murder; then that she, Jo, was apparently a suspect!

  How could this all have come about? It was too much. Jo looked over at Gabe’s booth, longing for his calm and sensible input, but all she could see was the top of his gray head as he dealt with four or five enthusiastic toy customers at once. One or two drifted her way, and soon Jo became as busy as he, a situation that normally would have pleased her but that morning felt only burdensome.

  Her professionalism, however, kicked in, and Jo managed to smile as she greeted and explained and rang up sales, while at the same time dealing with flashes of Linda as she gasped for air, her throat swelling close from anaphylaxis. Questions sprang up like ragweed after a summer rain. With as severe an allergy as she had, wouldn’t Linda have carried an EpiPen? Jo remembered a classmate in school who had swollen up from multiple bee stings and who thereafter toted the spring-loaded hypodermic, ready to inject what could be lifesaving epinephrine.

  Why hadn’t Linda ever mentioned such an allergy when they had known each other in New York? Wouldn’t something like that normally come up? Obviously, Sheriff Franklin thought so.

  And why had Linda seemingly accused Jo of poisoning her? That was the most infuriating question of all. It was as if even in dying Linda had to throw one final jab at Jo. The trouble was, that jab was a major one, tons worse than intentionally spilling coffee over jewelry or calling Mike’s death a suicide. That jab could land Jo in prison. Jo found her earlier conflicted sadness over Linda’s death replaced by a simmering anger. Linda had done it again. The woman caused endless trouble. Well, darned if Jo was going to let her get away with it!

  Jo stopped herself on that thought. Let Linda get away with it? What was she thinking! Linda had been murdered. The person Jo needed to care about getting away with anything was whoever had put the ground peanuts into Linda’s chocolates. If that person wasn’t identified—and soon—Jo would remain suspect number one with her life turned upside down.

  Her thoughts flew back to the conversation she had overheard Friday night while sitting on the bench during her dinner break. The two vendors discussing Linda had mentioned a Bill Ewing as having reason to have a grudge against her. Who was this man? Jo wondered, and how could she find out more about him? She glanced over once again toward Gabe, who was probably her best source of anything connected with Michicomi. She needed to talk to him as soon as she had the chance.

  A couple of hours later, around the time Jo’s empty stomach started sending distress signals, Jo was surprised to see Meg Boyer, the woman Loralee Phillips had introduced on the first day of the craft show, appear at her booth. With all the shoppers ebbing and flowing through her area, Jo might not have immediately recognized Meg except for the distinctive jacket she wore once again: a pale blue denim with a dancing Kokopelli figure embroidered on its breast pocket, a bit of whimsy that seemed somehow out of sync with the more subdued Meg.

  Jo greeted her. “Come for another day of shopping?”

  “Yes, but also to tell you that Ina Mae isn’t able to come today.”

&nbs
p; Jo’s empty stomach sank.

  “Her next door neighbor,” Meg went on to explain, “slipped on her deck this morning and cracked her shoulder, so Ina Mae took her to the emergency room. Ina Mae called Loralee to see if she could come in for her, and Loralee told her not to worry but then remembered she had a church committee meeting to go to. Loralee knew I was planning to come here anyway—there’s a pottery-making demonstration I want to see at two—so she asked if I’d mind filling in for her. I said sure—that is, if it’s okay with you.”