Paper-Thin Alibi

by Hughes, Mary Ellen

  Jo nodded. “Meg told me she went to high school with the woman who was murdered at Michicomi. I need to find out a few things about her.”

  “Meg knew that woman? She never said a word about it! I knew she’d been to the craft festival, of course. She’s not much of a talker, is she? Hard worker, though, so I have no complaints.”

  “You and Bert have done all the work yourselves up to now, haven’t you? This must give you a bit of a break.”

  Ruthie smiled. “All these years, just the two of us. We’re starting to think it might be time to let go a little, take some time off, as long as we have the right people to handle things for us. Not easy finding reliable people, though, with what we can afford to pay.” Ruthie turned her head toward the kitchen. “Meg! Can you come out here a minute?”

  Ruthie lowered her voice and leaned toward Jo. “I wasn’t all that impressed with Meg when she first applied. Seemed kinda listless and uninterested, you know? But then I heard she’d been stuck at home a lot with a husband who was kinda controlling. I thought this might be her first try to get out and get hold of her life a bit, you know what I mean? So I decided to give her a chance. It’s been working out.”

  Jo nodded. “I’m glad.”

  Ruthie straightened up as Meg stepped through the door from the kitchen, a white apron covering the front of her paisley-printed smock and wide jeans. “You wanted to see me?” the younger woman asked.

  “Jo, here, wants to talk to you. Why don’t you grab a Coke or something and sit down a bit. I’ll get Bert started on the order.”

  Ruthie disappeared into the kitchen, and Jo pulled a bottle of chilled iced tea from the self-serve case and turned to ask Meg, “Coke for you?”

  “Uh-huh. Diet.”

  Jo handed her the can and went over to one of the small tables near the window, Meg following behind. She twisted off her iced tea cap and waited until Meg popped her Coke open, then said, “I wanted to ask you more about Linda Weeks.”

  Meg shrugged. “Okay.” She took a healthy gulp from her can. “What about her?”

  “Her former husband. Did you happen to know him?”

  “No. I never heard any news about her after high school, so I didn’t even know she was married.”

  “What about other classmates? Did you keep in touch with anyone who might be able to give me a name and information on how to find him?”

  Meg stared above Jo’s right shoulder, thinking, and Jo saw a spark of interest appear in her eyes. She looked back at Jo. “You know, I might. Hold on.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “My pocketbook’s in the back.”

  Jo sipped her ice tea and watched Meg go into the kitchen, her step a bit livelier than when she’d come out. Jo crossed her fingers that she’d return with a good lead. While she waited, a customer walked through the door, and Jo glanced over, relieved to see it was nobody she recognized—or who recognized her—but sad, at the same time, over that feeling. She had chosen to settle in a small town partly for the pleasure of becoming part of a community. She was discovering, though, that there could be a downside to that. With the way her business had slowed, she needed to clear her name quickly, before “down” turned into “down and out.”

  Ruthie came out to wait on the customer, and Meg soon followed, holding a large, well-worn handbag. She plopped down in her seat and began searching through it, pulling out things that looked to Jo like they might have been in there for years: old envelopes, rumpled tissues, at least two pairs of sunglasses, a mashed, wrapped Twinkie.

  “Ah,” Meg finally cried. “Here it is.” She pulled out a battered-looking address book and flipped through it, small pieces of paper dropping out in the process. “Yes. Emmy Schmidt. I have her number. If it hasn’t changed and I get her, I’ll bet she can tell us something.”

  “Want to try now?” Jo dug into her own purse. “You can use my cell phone.”

  “Sure.” Meg took the phone, then grinned. “I hope Em-my’s sitting down when she answers. This’ll be quite a shock, hearing from me.”

  Jo watched as Meg carefully punched in Emmy Schmidt’s number, then waited for the connection. Meg drew a breath as someone apparently answered.

  “Hi, Emmy? This is Meg Padgett. Remember me? From the Marching Wolverines?” She grinned, and Jo was able to faintly catch the sounds of Emmy screaming in surprise. “Yeah, a long time. Uh-huh. Right!”

  Jo waited as Meg went through a brief catching-up conversation, noticing that she offered little of herself other than that she was now Meg Boyer and living in Abbotsville, Maryland. Emmy apparently had much more she wanted to share. Meg traded reminiscences about the high school band, in which she had played the clarinet and Emmy was a majorette, which at least sounded promising to Jo as someone likely to have been friends with Linda. But Jo shifted in her chair, wanting the conversation to get to the point.

  Finally she heard Meg bring up Linda, not mentioning what had happened to her recently but only asking, casually, if Emmy knew if she was married or not.

  “Oh?” Meg said, making writing motions to Jo, who quickly pulled out a pen and a scrap of paper from her pocketbook. “So she married him after all, huh? But it didn’t last? What a shame. I heard she had gone to New York. Is he there too? Oh, really?” Meg scribbled something down. “Wow, that’s a surprise. What made him move there, I wonder? Oh. Uh-huh. I see. Well . . .” Meg’s side of the conversation lapsed into “mmms” and “uh-huhs” as Emmy apparently took over once again, but Meg pushed the paper she’d written on over to Jo as she continued to listen.

  Jo read what was written there and felt her eyes widen. She looked up at Meg, who nodded agreement with Jo’s reaction.

  Linda Weeks’s former husband was Patrick Weeks—a name that meant nothing to Jo—but he presently lived in Marlsburg, Maryland. Marlsburg was the surprising part, since it was probably within twenty miles of Abbotsville.

  Jo thought this over, as Meg hung on the line with Emmy. Had Linda applied to come to Michicomi in Hammond County for more reasons than to sell jewelry? She must have known Patrick was living nearby. Did she contact him? And if so, how had that gone?

  “Okay, Emmy. Great talking to you.” Meg wound up her conversation—with some difficulty, apparently, as she added several more “uh-huhs” before the final good-bye. She handed the warm phone back to Jo, looking pleased.

  “Great work, Meg,” Jo said.

  “Will you go see him?”

  “Yes, I think that’d work better than just calling. It sounded like you knew the guy she married from school. Would you like to come along?”

  Meg frowned. “No, I don’t think so. I mean, I didn’t really know him. I just remembered his name and that he and Linda were a hot couple toward the end of senior year.” She cleared her frown. “If I went we might just get stuck talking about high school stuff. Look how Emmy went on and on.”

  Jo thought Emmy’s easiness about sharing information had come from talking to an old classmate and would have liked Meg’s help in that way with the ex-husband. But she didn’t want to urge Meg into a situation she wasn’t comfortable with. Besides, Jo needed to remember that Patrick Weeks wasn’t just a source of information, but a possible suspect. How possible remained to be discovered.

  “Oh,” Meg said, “Emmy mentioned that Pat has his own business, building custom-made furniture. That should make it easier to find him, don’t you think?”

  “Definitely. He’ll at least be in the yellow pages. That’s good to know.” Jo stood up. “Thanks, Meg. You’ve been a terrific help.”

  Meg smiled, and flicked a strand of hair off her face with a toss of her head, a gesture that struck Jo as perkier than her usual half-hearted hand swipe.

  As she walked back to the craft shop, lunch order in hand, Jo wondered about the high school version of Meg. What had she been like then? Certainly energetic enough to be in a marching band. Slimmer? Less mousy? Apparently memorable enough to be instantly recalled by the band’s majorette. What had change
d Meg over the years? An unwise marriage that had gradually beaten her down? Perhaps her husband had been the reason she held back from seeing Patrick Weeks, fearing what his reaction would be?

  Jo remembered what Ruthie had said, that she thought Meg might be working on regaining control of her life. If so, Jo wished her the best of luck. Pulling your life back together, as Jo understood from her own experience, wasn’t easy, but was well worth all the effort.

  On that note, her thoughts flew to Russ, the man whose recent entrance into her life had brightened it so, but whose very presence she found herself feeling so conflicted about. The shooting had certainly demonstrated how important he’d become to her. But it had also frightened her. What if she let Russ mean as much to her as Mike had, only to lose him as she had lost Mike?

  At that thought, Jo halted, nearly dropping her lunch bag.

  “I don’t know if I could bear that again,” she said, remembering the pain of that time.

  A second question instantly came to mind: Would you not have married Mike if you’d known what would happen?

  Jo didn’t have to think about that. “No, I wouldn’t have missed those years for anything. They were precious to me. I wouldn’t be who I am today without them.”

  Well then?

  A car horn beeped and Jo suddenly realized she was blocking an alleyway exit. She waved apologetically and hustled out of the way.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know,” she muttered, aware, as she continued on down the sidewalk, that she’d better figure it out.

  Chapter 11

  Jo was munching on her turkey and bacon roll-up at the back of the craft shop when the phone rang.

  Since Carrie was in midbite of her veggie burger and struggling to keep control of the straggly bean sprouts that topped it, Jo mumbled, “I’ll get it,” and swallowed as quickly as she could manage without choking.

  “Jo’s Craft Corner,” she said, having dropped her usual, “Jo, here,” after Penny Collins’s stuttering reaction that morning.

  The caller obviously still picked up that it was she, saying, “Hello, Jo,” but didn’t hang up. “This is Gabe Stubbins.”

  “Gabe! Great to hear from you.”

  “And good to talk to you too. I hope you’re doing well?”

  “Things could be worse, I guess,” Jo said, thinking they didn’t have a long ways to go.

  “Well, maybe this will help a little. I have the information I promised to get for you.”

  “About Bill Ewing?”

  “Yes. Got a pencil?”

  Jo scribbled down the name and address Gabe gave her.

  “Do you know anything about this friend?” she asked. “Is he a photographer too?”

  “She owns a restaurant. Guess I should have mentioned that. More of a small diner, it sounds like, possibly the kind of place people find by following those knife-and-fork signs near a freeway exit. I gather there’s a modest motel connected to it. I suppose Bill’s staying in one of the rooms.”

  “Thanks, Gabe. This should be very helpful. Are you back home now?”

  “Yes, I’m here in Pennsylvania for a few days, but I’ll be off again to Richmond, Virginia, Thursday.” Gabe chuckled. “The wife claims instead of ‘His’ and ‘Her’ towels, she should have ‘Hers’ and ‘Welcome Stranger.’ ”

  “I didn’t know you were doing another show so soon. A Michicomi?”

  “Right. I hadn’t been scheduled for this one, but with the show losing Linda they had an opening. I decided to take it. I had plenty of toys stocked up, and Richmond’s a good stop.”

  “I’m sure it is. Well, try to get some rest before hitting the road again. Thanks for getting this information for me.”

  Gabe wished her luck with it and said good-bye. Jo turned to Carrie, who’d finished her veggie burger by this time and was gathering up the wrappings.

  “What are you doing for dinner tonight?” Jo asked.

  “I have no idea. I haven’t been to the market lately and our pickings are slim. Plus both Charlie and Amanda have after-school things going on, which means having to pick them up instead of food shopping and cooking.”

  “Perfect!” Jo smiled and Carrie threw her a puzzled look. “I think you deserve dinner out at”—Jo checked her note—“Ginger’s House of Home Cookin’.”

  “I do?” Carrie asked, uncertainly. “Where’s that?”

  “Just off Route 30, at exit 14. A pleasant drive on a spring evening and a delightful spot for a family dinner. I hope.”

  Jo explained what Gabe had told her. “I’d go scout it out myself, but I’ve got the workshop tonight and I was hoping to get to the hospital sometime.”

  “Oh, of course!” The uncertainty on Carrie’s face was replaced by an eagerness to help. “I’ll just check in with Dan, but I’m sure he’ll be fine with it. What do you want us to find out?”

  “Anything you can, I guess.” Jo described Bill Ewing to Carrie. “If we’re lucky, you’ll spot him hanging around there. If not, maybe you can strike up a conversation with the owner, Ginger, and see what you can pick up about him. Anything at all will be helpful.”

  “We’ll do our best.” Carrie opened her cell phone to call her husband about the idea, and Jo walked back to the stockroom to gather together the materials she needed for the workshop. She had checked the sign-up sheet to see who was coming and mentally crossed off the names of two people she felt sure would not show up. That left Ina Mae, Javonne, Loralee, and Loralee’s daughter, Dulcie.

  Considering the topic sure to be discussed beyond their project, Jo thought it should be an interesting evening.

  A few hours later, Jo spread out materials for four on the workshop table, thinking, with little satisfaction, that she had been right. Around five o’clock both Ellie Blandsfield and Sally Holloway had called to cancel, each claiming unexpected emergencies. At least they’d been considerate enough to call, Jo thought, and she had responded as courteously, leaving an opening for them to return should they have a change of heart. That was a slim possibility, Jo knew, but she brushed away the thought, not wanting to dwell on the negative.

  On the positive side, she had talked to Russ, briefly, and he’d sounded much better than he had the night before. She’d hoped to run over to the hospital before the workshop, but Russ suggested she come by later, explaining there’d been a steady stream of fellow police officers stopping in.

  “You won’t be too tired?” she’d asked.

  “Not for you,” he’d answered, which made her smile. “I’ll have the nurse put a hold on visitors pretty soon and catch a few z’s. You’ll be on my approved list.”

  “Nice to be approved of.”

  “Highly approved of,” he’d said, which had broadened her smile even more.

  Jo pushed the large box of tissue papers to the middle of the table. She was deciding how much wire and glue to set out when Loralee and Dulcie walked in.

  “There she is!” Loralee called out cheerfully with what was becoming her regular greeting. Jo rather liked it, coming, as it did from a good friend. If, on the other hand, Jo started hearing it from strangers as she walked down the street, as in, “There she is—that murder suspect,” that would be an altogether different matter.

  Dulcie followed behind, and Jo noted the similarities and differences between mother and daughter. Dulcie mirrored her mother’s petite frame but hadn’t inherited Loralee’s blond curls, sporting instead straight brown hair worn in a becoming bob. From the few interactions Jo had had with Dulcie, she seemed to have been blessed with much of Loralee’s blithe nature, but tempered with a touch of steeliness. This surfaced particularly when her young family was concerned, much like a protective mother bear. But Jo decided that since she had no intention of ever getting between Dulcie and her brood, it shouldn’t be a problem.

  Jo welcomed them both, listening politely as Dulcie launched into a detailed explanation of the effort it had taken to arrive on time what with her having to feed and bathe both chi
ldren plus tidy up and get a couple of loads of laundry going. Since her husband, Ken, was apparently home and not incapacitated, Jo suspected he had long ago realized she was happier doing such things herself—and then being able to exclaim about it—and that his best bet was to keep out of her way.

  “How is our lieutenant doing?” Loralee asked, her face pinched with concern.

  “Much better,” Jo assured her.

  Loralee gave Jo’s arm a squeeze. “I know this is a difficult time for you, dear. I wouldn’t have dreamed of expecting you to carry on with this workshop, except Javonne thought we might be able to come up with ways to help with that craft show problem if we all gathered together.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised at all if that happened, Loralee. There’s something about everyone’s ideas being thrown into the mix that always seems to work.”