Paper-Thin Alibi

by Hughes, Mary Ellen

  Jo grinned at the slightly plump woman who had delivered this involved explanation in placid monotone and now awaited Jo’s approval.

  “It’s more than okay with me,” Jo said. “I had just reached the point of really needing a break, so I appreciate your stepping in for Ina Mae—and Loralee—on such short notice.” Jo then remembered Meg’s words to her two days ago about having known Linda and asked if she’d heard what had happened.

  Meg nodded. “It was on the news this morning. If it had happened in Abbotsville, I would have found out a lot sooner.”

  Jo agreed with that, having seen firsthand how quickly information could spread through the network of Abbotsville neighbors. “I’m sorry if it’s at all upsetting. You said you’d known her in high school.”

  Meg shrugged. “I knew of Linda more than I knew her, and hadn’t seen her since graduation. What did she die of? They didn’t say on the news.”

  Jo gave Meg a basic rundown. She took it fairly calmly, but her eyebrows went up when she heard the cause of Linda’s death.

  “You hadn’t heard about her allergy back in school?” Jo asked.

  “No, but I can guess why. Back then Linda was working hard to be part of a group that was tops in everything—best dressed, student council, drama club leads—things like that. I don’t think she’d be likely to bring up anything that would make her sound less than perfect.”

  Jo nodded. That might be exactly why Linda had never mentioned it to her. It was a chink in her armor, an armor that needed to be kept highly polished in her efforts to dazzle. Career struggles and health problems did not fit into her image requirements. Too bad she hadn’t also considered honesty and integrity as necessary to the fit.

  Jo gave Meg a quick overview on handling the booth, then grabbed her pocketbook and promised not to be long. Instead of heading straight out of the building, though, she turned toward Gabe’s toy booth.

  “Like to take a lunch break with me?” she asked. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  Gabe looked up from the dollhouse he was examining. “Tell you what. You go ahead and grab something, and I’ll meet you in ten minutes at the tea kiosk. I’ve already had a bowl of soup, but I wouldn’t mind a cup of Patty’s spicy tea.”

  “Sounds good.” Jo checked her watch. “See you then.”

  In ten minutes she was standing near the edge of Patty’s Tea Shack, nibbling at her chicken salad roll-up, while Gabe waited in line for the tea.

  “How about I get two?” he’d offered, guaranteeing that Jo would love the chai. She’d agreed, and when he handed her the large foam cup and she inhaled some of the delicious-smelling steam that wafted toward her, she was glad she had.

  “There’s an empty bench over there,” Jo said, pointing with her elbow to an area about twenty feet away, and led the way.

  When they’d settled down, Gabe took a careful sip of his hot beverage and looked toward her. “Okay, fire away. What do you need to know?”

  Glad to get straight to the point, Jo asked, “What do you know about Bill Ewing in relation to Linda?”

  “Bill?” The gray eyebrows on Gabe’s lined face went up. “You’ve been hearing things, huh?”

  “Not much, just a hint that something major had happened between them in Morgantown.”

  “Well, normally I try to keep out of such things, but I suspect you have a good reason for asking. Is that so?”

  Jo took a bracing sip of her chai, which she found delicious. In a cozier conversation she would have savored it, but for the moment a quick swallow had to do. “Apparently, one of Linda’s dying breaths was used to indicate that I had poisoned her.” She told Gabe about her interview with Sheriff Franklin, and he shook his head sadly.

  “Sounds like she put you in quite a spot,” he said.

  “That she did. But there’s nothing says I have to stay there. I intend to find out who doctored up that candy and sent it to Linda. Bill Ewing may or may not be the one, but I have to start somewhere.”

  Gabe nodded, understanding. “Bill does photography,” he began. “He sells framed black and white prints of things like bridges, snowy landscape scenes, things like that. He depends a lot, financially, on coming to these shows, but they’re juried, as you know, and not everyone who applies gets into every show. Sometimes it’s just a matter of trying to keep a balance—not too many of one type of thing—or of simply needing to make space for new people now and then.

  “But Linda, once she started coming, was getting into each and every show. Rumors started flying about favoritism. That happens once in a while. People, even craft show organizers, are human, with all the usual human frailties. But Linda made the rumors particularly hard to shrug off.” He took a sip of his chai. “You know what she was like. She had to be sure everyone was 100 percent aware of her success, pretending it was totally due to her outstanding skills, but at the same time dropping hints about her high connections.

  “It drove Bill crazy, especially when she started putting down his work to others, which of course got back to him. Bill is not a calm, coolheaded person. If he were Irish like my dear wife,” Gabe said with a small wink, “I’d blame it on that, but he’s not. So he blustered and huffed and complained to the management, which got him nothing but what he considered empty assurances that there was no favoritism being shown.

  “At Morgantown things came to a head. Bill had learned that he was turned down for participation at the Atlanta show—a major money-making stop—and that Linda was, once again, in. He stormed and fumed all day. Then, when he couldn’t stand it any longer he stomped over to Linda’s booth and made a big scene. He caused such a ruckus, part of it, I heard, brought on from her agitating him even more, that security had to pull him away, and he was disciplined by having to close up his booth a day early.”

  “And Linda suffered no consequences and continued to show up at every festival.”

  Gabe nodded.

  “Would Sheriff Franklin have been informed of this, as he obviously was of my problem with Linda?”

  Gabe squirmed. “He probably should have been, but I doubt he was. Bill, you see, is an old-timer here, and despite his prickliness, people like him, or at least feel some loyalty to him. They wouldn’t want to get him in trouble.”

  “I, on the other hand, am a newcomer,” Jo said.

  “Unfortunately, true. But that doesn’t, of course, mean that the sheriff won’t eventually learn about what went on between Bill and Linda.”

  “But it might be greatly minimized as to its importance.”

  “It might be,” Gabe acknowledged.

  “Well, what do you think?” Jo asked. “Would Bill Ewing be angry enough with Linda to want to kill her?”

  Gabe’s face clouded. “That is a question I can’t answer with 100 percent confidence, I’m afraid. I’ve been flummoxed too often by people to guess what they are capable of and what they’re not. No one can see everything that’s going on deep inside another person’s head, can they? So, though I hope Bill would never think of committing a deed as terrible as murder, I can’t guarantee that he hasn’t.”

  Jo nodded, understanding. She too had been flummoxed in the past, and it had come close to having dire consequences for her. She hoped it hadn’t destroyed her ability to trust altogether, but it had certainly made her more cautious.

  “Well,” she said, “then I guess I’ll need to judge for myself.” She pulled out and unfolded the map that listed Michicomi vendors by name and location. “Looks like Bill Ewing’s in building 5.” She checked her watch. “If I hurry, I’ll have a few minutes to at least look him over.”

  Jo browsed through Bill Ewing’s booth, which, unlike hers, had no obstructive front counters. Instead, an open area invited shoppers to stroll in and examine the many framed prints hung on back and side walls. Besides Jo, two other shoppers peered at his work, and Bill Ewing himself perched on a high stool beside a small table where Jo presumed he handled his sales.

 
A crew-cut, husky man in his middle years, he acknowledged rather than welcomed visitors to his booth with a brisk nod and answered questions about his photos when asked. But he obviously preferred to let his work speak for itself. Jo got the definite impression that given the choice, he would be out taking more photos instead of dealing with potential customers. His work impressed Jo, and if she’d actually been shopping and could afford them, one of his prints of a lighthouse at sunset would have greatly tempted her.

  “Don’t you have any pictures of animals?” a well-dressed woman asked. She clutched bags from several purchases and tiptoed along on what might have been three-inch Prada slides. “Baby seals or maybe kitties?”

  The woman looked like she could afford to buy cart-loads of kitty pictures if she found them, but Ewing simply grumbled, “No animals.”

  “Oh,” the woman said and tripped off. Jo watched her go with a small sigh, wishing she could guide the well-heeled woman toward her own booth to discuss any variety of custom-made, animal-themed jewelry. But she remained in place in her undercover role.

  In a moment it seemed to pay off as another vendor, a sparkly T-shirted woman, wandered over to chat with Ewing. When Jo caught a low-voiced mention of Linda, she moved closer.

  “. . . heard the local sheriff’s asking about anyone who had a beef with her.”

  “Yeah? My name come up?”

  The woman barked out a laugh that ended in a phlegmy smoker’s cough. “Can’t say. Someone sure had it in for her, though.”

  Ewing simply grunted, then glanced over toward Jo, who immediately focused on a dramatic shot of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. “Can you stay a few minutes?” he asked the cougher.

  “Yeah, that’s why I came. Figured it might be time.”

  Ewing bent down to a duffel bag at his feet and pulled out a small, black case. “You figured right,” he said, and quickly took off.

  As Jo turned to watch, the woman who was standing in for him smiled at her. “Diabetic,” she said, apparently feeling Jo needed an explanation. “My gran had the same problem. Had to jab herself with needles every day. God, I’m glad I never came down with that, knock on wood. I can’t stand needles, can you?”

  Jo smiled and shook her head. So Bill Ewing was proficient with hypodermics, she thought as she looked toward where he had walked off. She doubted the fine needles used for insulin could handle peanut paste, but wondered about the coincidence. Thoughts of injections would occur quite naturally to a diabetic who handled such things every day, wouldn’t they? Plus, he might know where to find the proper size needle. But would he have also known of Linda’s allergy? That was still a major question.

  Chapter 7

  Jo hustled back to her booth to find Meg quietly manning it.

  “Any problems?” Jo asked as she slipped behind the counter.

  “No,” Meg said. She scrunched her nose. “But I only sold one pair of earrings for you.”

  “That’s fine. You also kept my merchandise from turning into free samples, so along with giving me a much-needed break, you were a major help. Thanks so much, Meg.”

  Meg gave a wan smile, causing Jo to realize that Meg’s sales skills were probably about the same level as Bill Ewing’s. “What kind of work do you do at the Abbot’s Kitchen?” she asked. Ruthie Conway, one of the owners, had always handled the front counter in a way that made every customer feel like a longtime friend. Jo couldn’t imagine Meg easily stepping into that spot.

  “So far I’ve been helping Bert with the food prep—chopping and mixing—and I clean up out front too.”

  Jo nodded. “As I mentioned before, I’ll probably see you a lot then, since I pop over there often at lunchtime for sandwiches.” She checked the time. “Oops! It’s almost two. If you want to catch that pottery demo you’d better get going.”

  Meg picked up her things and after acknowledging more of Jo’s sincere thanks with a nod, took off. Once Jo settled herself and had a chance to look around she realized from the suddenly diminished number of shoppers that the pottery demo must have been a major draw. She decided this would be a good chance to discuss Bill Ewing with Gabe a bit more. When she wandered over, though, Gabe was busy straightening several of the wooden toys that had been rearranged in the process of showing them to shoppers, so Jo paused at his front counter to let him finish. Gabe had just glanced over and noticed she was there when Jo was addressed from behind.

  “Mrs. McAllister?”

  Jo turned to see a young deputy sheriff, who touched his hat politely.

  “Sheriff Franklin would like to see you for a minute.”

  Jo sighed and asked, “Now?” aware that she had repeated her response to the sheriff’s request of that morning and just as aware of the futility of it.

  “I’ll watch your booth,” Gabe offered. “There won’t be much happening for at least another half hour.”

  “Thanks, Gabe,” Jo said. She tossed him a rueful look, then followed the deputy back to Julian Honeycutt’s office, wondering what Sheriff Franklin needed to know that he hadn’t asked about before.

  The deputy ushered her in, and the sheriff half rose in what Jo supposed was a gesture of welcome, though she felt less than happy to have been invited. She sat down, and he immediately got down to business.

  “Mrs. McAllister.” He slipped on his half-moon glasses once more and Jo braced herself. “You said this morning that you had known Ms. Weeks when you both lived in New York City.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I believe you indicated you had been friends for a while, but that friendship ended before you moved down here.”

  “I think I said we had been friendly.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “I believe so, yes. Linda and I had never reached the closeness, the sharing-confidences stage that friends have. We were more acquaintances with a few things in common.”

  “I see. So that friendliness ended, I assume, when you found out she was having an affair with your husband?”

  “What!”

  The sheriff simply looked at her, waiting. Jo was sure he expected her to blurt out confirmation of the absurd question he’d just thrown at her. Instead she counted to ten as she returned his stare, holding herself down until she could speak calmly.

  “What in the world, Sheriff, makes you think Linda had an affair with my husband?”

  “Are you saying she didn’t?”

  “Absolutely she didn’t. I know that for a fact.”

  “Interesting, since she told others the affair was the reason for the problems between the two of you.”

  Jo grit her teeth and drew a deep breath, thinking how typical that was of Linda. She was sure Linda also claimed to have been a complete victim in the supposed affair, to have been totally unaware that Mike had been married to Jo at the time, and was cleverly seduced.

  “Sheriff,” Jo began, “Linda said a lot of things that were figments of her own, very creative imagination. This was just one more very hurtful lie of hers. I wouldn’t put any credence to it.”

  “Then I presume you would also contend your husband didn’t commit suicide when he realized he couldn’t spend the rest of his life with her?”

  Jo groaned, and shook her head in disbelief. How long, she wondered, was that woman going to continue to throw jabs at her? Wasn’t death supposed to put an end to such things? At that thought Jo almost smiled, realizing that that question was the last thing she would voice to the man sitting behind the desk, watching her so carefully over the top of his glasses. She drew a breath, wondering what in the world she was going to say that would swing a predisposed opinion in her direction.

  Jo’s cell phone rang as she worked her way through the crowd toward building 10, and she checked it before answering, not in the mood for frivolous chat. The call, however, was from the one person she was willing to talk to. She pressed the answer button.

  “Hi, Carrie.”

  “Hi.” Carrie paused, probably reacting to the less
than happy tone of Jo’s greeting, then asked, “How’s it going?”

  Jo sighed, and looked about for a quieter place to talk. She spotted an empty kiosk that had closed up early as the final hours of the festival ran out, and headed for it. Leaning against its side and out of the flow of last-minute shoppers, she brought Carrie up to speed on the downward spiral of events that had occurred since they’d last talked. Carrie knew about Linda’s death, but her reactions to what followed ranged from horrified gasps to sputters of outrage. These were exactly the gamut of emotions Jo had experienced and she was glad to have them confirmed as reasonable.

  “Jo,” Carrie said, “I think you should call Russ.”

  Jo straightened up from her lean. “Russ? Why?”