Paper-Thin Alibi

by Hughes, Mary Ellen

  “For his help, of course. He can vouch for you to this sheriff, and anything Russ says will carry much more weight than what your friends would say.”

  “I don’t know, Carrie. I’d hate to ask that of him.” She really did, but for reasons that weren’t totally clear to her at the moment.

  “I don’t think he’d feel imposed upon, if that’s what you’re thinking. At least get his advice. He’d want you to do that.”

  “I’ll think about it. How are things at the shop?”

  “Slow to moderate. Michicomi probably drew away most of our crafters. But I think we’ll reap the rewards later as it inspires them to try new things.”

  “I hope so.” Jo told Carrie about Meg Boyer having come by to help out in Ina Mae’s place.

  “Good for her,” Carrie said. “She seems to be livening up a bit—taking that job at Bert and Ruth’s, for one thing, after being pretty much of a recluse from the time she and her husband moved here. Some people wondered if she had a chronic illness of sorts, but I think it may have been a kind of depression. I’m glad to see her starting to come out of it.”

  “Was she unhappy over moving away from her home-town?” Jo remembered getting that feeling when Meg had indicated the move had been more her husband’s choice than hers.

  “I don’t know,” Carrie said. “And I feel bad for not trying harder to get to know her. Ah-choo!”

  “Bless you. Did you call your doctor?”

  “Not yet. Oh, someone’s coming in.” Jo heard the soft ding of her shop’s bell. “I’d better go,” Carrie said, “but I was calling to say Charlie and Dan will be there a little after six to help you dismantle your display cases.”

  “Great. And Carrie, call your doctor.”

  “I will if you’ll call Russ.”

  “Take care of your customer, Carrie. See you later.”

  Jo had a flurry of decent last-minute sales, which was gratifying. It seemed as though the really serious shoppers had meticulously checked over the entire show for the last three days, comparing and mulling things over before making their final purchases. She recognized a couple of returning customers, women with whom she had spent a considerable amount of time discussing necklaces and pins.

  When they’d wandered off with vague promises of returning she hadn’t really counted on seeing them again, but was pleasantly surprised when they reappeared, credit cards in hand.

  She was happy, then, to see she had considerably less merchandise to take home than she had brought to the show, though she wasn’t sure yet if she’d actually managed to earn back her expenses and make a profit. Less merchandise, however, at least meant less to pack, and she had made significant progress toward that effort by the time Carrie’s husband and son arrived.

  “Wow, you did great, Aunt Jo,” Charlie said, eyeing Jo’s near-empty cases.

  Jo laughed. “Not that great, Charlie. I was the one, not my customers, who emptied most of this out. Hi, Dan. I’ll have the rest of these things out of the front case in a minute.”

  “Take your time.” Dan rested a hand on his son’s shoulder, a simple gesture that made Jo smile, pleased to see that small sign of the easy camaraderie that had developed between the two. It wasn’t all that long ago that their father-son relationship had been highly strained, and both pairs of hands would have been shoved deep into their respective pockets, shoulders hunched.

  Charlie shifted uneasily as he glanced over at Linda’s closed-off booth, aware, so far, only of her death and not of any of the later-developing details Jo had shared with Carrie. If he had known it was murder, Jo was sure he’d be peppering her with questions, all squeamishness replaced with normal fifteen-year-old curiosity and excitement. She decided to let the squeamishness prevail for now in the interests of packing up quickly and heading home. She was looking forward to the solitude and peace she would find there.

  When Jo gave the all-clear signal, the duo set about dismantling the cases that Dan had built for easy mobility, and one by one they carried them out to his truck while Jo loaded up her own car with the smaller boxes.

  Michicomi itself was dismantling as well, and Jo, seeing vans and trailers being packed and readied to take off for parts unknown, realized that Linda’s killer might also be slipping away, with only herself remaining within Sheriff Franklin’s reach. On her return to her near-empty booth, therefore, Jo walked over to speak to Gabe.

  “Would you mind giving me a way to reach you once you’re gone?” she asked.

  Gabe smiled. “I’m way ahead of you.” He handed her a card with, Jo saw, a cell phone number, home phone, and e-mail address written on it. “My business cards have my website listed, but I thought you might want something that worked quicker.”

  “Yes, I do, and thank you. I hope I won’t have to use this much, but I’m afraid unless someone walks into the sheriff’s office soon and says, ‘I did it,’ that I may need to pick your brain some more about Michicomi people.”

  “Pick all you want. And I’ve already learned something you might be glad to hear.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Bill Ewing might be hanging around this area for a bit instead of heading home to Pennsylvania.”

  “Really? Why would he do that?”

  “I heard he wants to take photos of several interesting old tobacco barns, for one thing, and he has a friend he can stay with.”

  “Well, that’s interesting. Any idea where that friend is located?”

  “Not yet, but I think I can find out. I’ll let you know when I do.”

  “Thanks, Gabe.” Jo pulled out her own card and scribbled her phone information on it.

  Gabe’s face grew serious. “Don’t you be worrying too much about this whole business. It might seem bleak with the sheriff giving you the hard time he has. But you’re part of the Michicomi family now, and I want you to know that I’m behind you 100 percent.”

  Jo swallowed hard. “That means a lot to me, Gabe,” she said. She reached over to give him a hug, which he returned heartily. But as Jo looked beyond his shoulder, she saw Amy, the woman from the leatherworks booth, watching them through narrowed eyes.

  Obviously, Jo realized with a sigh, not everyone in the Michicomi family felt quite as supportive.

  Jo carried the last of her jewelry boxes into her house after Dan and Charlie had left her dismantled cases in the garage and taken off. Exhausted, she dropped onto her tattered living room sofa and leaned her head back against its cushion, eyes closed. She briefly thought of fixing herself something to eat, but after a mental inventory of her refrigerator decided what she wanted most for the moment was to rest and to think.

  Carrie had urged her to talk to Russ, to enlist his aid for her shaky situation. It was a sensible suggestion, Jo knew, but her immediate and strong reaction had been to resist. Why? she wondered. Did she fear that accepting Russ’s help would draw them closer together or make her indebted to him? Was that such a bad thing? Was Russ the kind of person who would take undue advantage? She didn’t think so. He was certainly someone who would help if he could, with no strings attached. So why shouldn’t she let him?

  The situation with Sheriff Franklin was growing serious. People who had believed Linda’s manufactured account of her relationship with Mike had obviously rushed to impress the story on the sheriff. Jo didn’t know how much credence he put in those reports, but the questions he had thrown at her worried her. Couldn’t Russ help balance Franklin’s attitude?

  Jo ran her fingers through her hair, scrubbing as she deliberated. Why not? Why not ask? She stopped scrubbing. No reason at all. It made sense and she would do it. She would call Russ tonight and ask for his help.

  That decided, she felt better. Even energized. There must be something edible left in that kitchen of hers, she thought as she jumped up from the sofa. If her cupboard truly was bare, she’d call for a pizza, or maybe Chinese.

  Jo scoured the shelves of her refrigerator, discovering a forgotten carryout chicken drumstick
hiding behind an aging quart of milk. She pulled it out and had just bitten into it when the phone rang. Setting the drumstick down and licking her fingers clean, she reached for it, sincerely hoping the call wasn’t coming from the Hammond County Sheriff’s Department.

  “Jo, it’s Ina Mae.”

  Ina Mae’s voice had a tone of urgency that put Jo on alert. Before she could form a question, though, Ina Mae hurried on.

  “I’m at the hospital. Spent the whole day here with my neighbor for her broken shoulder. There’s a huge ruckus happening just now. I thought you should know.”

  “What?” Jo asked, bracing.

  “It’s Lieutenant Morgan, Jo. He’s been shot. You might want to get down here.”

  Chapter 8

  Jo grabbed her pocketbook and jumped into her Toyota, its motor still warm from her drive home. Ina Mae hadn’t been able to give her any information beyond that terrible statement, and Jo struggled to keep her imagination from running wild while at the same time trying to drive safely. The urge to speed and to ignore stop signs was strong, and only images of wreckage kept her from yielding to it.

  Ina Mae was watching for her in the hospital lobby when Jo came rushing in. The place was flooded with uniformed police as well as press people. Ina Mae pulled her away from the commotion.

  “He’s in surgery,” she said.

  Jo sucked in a relieved breath. At least he was alive. “How bad is it?” she asked, searching Ina Mae’s face, which was grim but not desolate.

  “All I’ve been able to learn is that his condition is serious, which to me is encouraging since it could be much worse.”

  Jo was considering this when someone touched her elbow. She turned to see Mark Rosatti, one of Russ’s sergeants, whom she’d met at a police banquet Russ had taken her to on an early date.

  “I saw you come in,” Mark said. “Russ will appreciate your being here.”

  “How is he?” Jo asked, trying to keep a tremor out of her voice. The sight of all the uniforms added a frightening intensity to the already alarming situation.

  “I’m pretty sure he’s going to be okay,” Mark said. That “pretty sure” was nowhere near firm enough for Jo.

  “What exactly happened?” Ina Mae asked.

  “It was a domestic call. Suspect was drunk, upset that his girlfriend was going to leave him, and decided the best way to hold on to her was by knocking her around and holding a gun on her. Russ went there to try to diffuse the situation. Unfortunately the girlfriend panicked and tried to make a run for it. Shots were fired; she fell, and Russ, trying to get her to safety, caught one.”

  “Where?” Jo asked. “I mean, where was he hit?”

  “His left shoulder. He was wearing a vest.”

  Jo breathed out. “So it’s not life threatening?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Probably?” Another word Jo didn’t like.

  The sergeant shifted his weight uneasily. “They didn’t find an exit wound, which means there’s a chance the bullet could have hit bone and veered off in another direction. Which direction would be critical.”

  “How long before they know?” Ina Mae asked.

  Mark shook his head. “It could be hours.” He turned to Jo. “I suggest you wait at home where you’ll be more comfortable. Give me your number and I’ll call as soon as there’s news.”

  “I’d rather wait here,” Jo said. She reached into her purse for a card and wrote her cell phone number on it.

  He nodded, pocketing her card. “I’ll see that they allow you in to see him when it’s time.”

  “Thanks, Mark.”

  The sergeant took off, and Ina Mae, watching him, said, “He’s right, you know. It could be a long wait.”

  “I want to be here, not half an hour away in case . . .” Jo stopped, not wanting to think the unthinkable. “I just want to be here.”

  “Then let’s go down to the cafeteria. Have you had any dinner yet?”

  Jo thought of the chicken drumstick she had left sitting on her kitchen counter. The one bite she’d taken out of it didn’t exactly qualify as dinner, but she didn’t feel like adding more to it. “I don’t think I can eat, but coffee might be a good idea.” They were waiting for the elevator when Jo suddenly turned to Ina Mae. “You’ve been here all day. There’s no need to stay longer with me. I’ll be fine.”

  “Phhht.” Ina Mae blew dismissively. “Virginia has to stay the night, and I was going to stop in on her a little later anyway.”

  The elevator arrived and Ina Mae stepped in along with Jo. “Virginia’s husband,” she said, explaining further, “has an eye condition and isn’t supposed to drive. And their daughter lives way up in Cumberland and won’t be here until tomorrow.”

  So Ina Mae had, of course, seen the need and filled in. What, Jo wondered, would the people of Abbotsville do without her? She smiled, then, at the thought that she too was officially an Abbotsvillian, and particularly grateful at the moment to be one.

  Once in the cafeteria, sliding her tray past salads and sandwiches toward the cashier, Jo added a muffin at the last minute to her coffee purchase. Behind her, Ina Mae grunted approvingly but asked, “Sure you don’t want to try some of this vegetable soup too?” Jo smiled and shook her head. After paying for both of them, she led the way to a quiet table near the back.

  Thankfully, the commotion in the hospital lobby hadn’t yet spread to the cafeteria. Jo unloaded her items, then sat, wrapping her hands around her mug to soak up some of its warmth.

  “The hospital staff here is quite good,” Ina Mae said as she sat down before her soup and tea. “You might not think that was the case in a small town like ours. But the hospital serves a fairly broad area beyond Abbotsville, and everything is top-notch.”

  Jo nodded. “I got that impression during my brief stay here last fall.”

  “My own Frank was well cared for here, to the end.”

  Jo looked up. “Your husband’s name was Frank?” she asked, realizing she hadn’t known that.

  “Yes. Francis G. Kepner. The ‘G’ was for ‘Gilbert,’ his grandfather’s name, which he never cared for much.” Ina Mae opened a packet of crackers. “He wasn’t overly fond of ‘Francis,’ either. Too much junk mail would come addressed to ‘Miss Francis Kepner.’ ” Ina Mae snorted in disgust. “As if a woman would spell it with an ‘I.’ ”

  Jo smiled, aware that she never managed to remember which version was masculine and which feminine. She broke off a piece of her muffin and nibbled at it.

  “What did he, ah, what was his ailment?” she asked.

  “No illness. Frank was healthy as a horse.”

  “But—?”

  “He was skydiving. He’d done it before, loved it from the first, and decided he was going to treat himself to a jump every birthday. That last time, though—it was his sixty-eighth birthday—things unfortunately went wrong. Parachute problem.”

  Jo winced.

  “He spent five days in a coma, then peacefully slipped away.” Ina Mae took a spoonful of her soup. “People, of course, said things like, ‘If he hadn’t taken such risks, you’d still have him with you.’ But the way I saw it was if he hadn’t taken risks, he wouldn’t have been Frank, so who would I have with me? Some man who wouldn’t have enjoyed life nearly as much!”

  Ina Mae took another spoonful of soup and dabbed her mouth with her paper napkin. “When it was clear he wasn’t going to survive I told him as much, even though I wasn’t sure he could hear me. I said, ‘Frank, I will miss you terribly, but I’m glad you got to do what you wanted to do.’ ”

  She cleared her voice. “Well, my original point was that this is a very good hospital. Frank’s situation was extreme, nothing like Lieutenant Morgan’s, but I watched him get outstanding care. The lieutenant, rest assured, is in excellent hands.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jo sat for a moment, quietly picturing Russ surrounded by skilled doctors and nurses, all damage swiftly and competently repaired, pain managed
, and brow soothed. It was a much calmer image than what had been bouncing about her head until then.

  The aroma from Ina Mae’s soup drifted toward her as the older woman stirred through the broth. Jo sniffed, thinking it smelled pretty good. She put her hands at the table’s edge and pushed back her chair.

  “I think I’ll get a bowl after all,” she said. “Can I pick you up a muffin?”

  Jo was dozing in a quiet waiting area Ina Mae had located on the third floor when her cell phone rang. Jerking upright and blinking, she scrambled through her pocket to find and answer it.

  “Jo? You still at the hospital? It’s Mark. Russ is awake. They said you can see him for a couple of minutes. The ICU’s on the fifth floor.”