by Meg Macy
“You did?” That made me smile. “You ought to tell Detective Mason that.”
“He wouldn’t believe me.”
“I think it proves you wouldn’t murder Will if you wanted to take over the business. But I’m sure you’d have fired him from his sales rep job.”
“I doubt Alex would sell, for one thing. Plus I don’t have that much dough. Unless we all pitched in, Deon and Pete and the ladies, to run the factory.” He brightened at that idea. “Bet we could get a small business loan if it came down to that.”
I nodded. “Maybe. So go ahead and tell Mason—”
“Tell me what?”
The detective lumbered into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes before placing his glasses back on his nose. He drew a stool out on the opposite side of the island. I noted Flora, Joan, and Harriet trooping to their cars beyond the window. The ladies all looked downcast, as if they’d sold their favorite puppy of a litter. Mason yawned and flexed his shoulders, then glanced at us both.
“So. What did you want him to tell me, Ms. Silverman?”
“That my uncle wanted to buy the Silver Bear Shop and Factory,” I said with a touch of defiance. “Along with the others on staff, if my dad had actually caved in to Will Taylor. They would have fired him, not resort to murder, and then hired a new sales rep. So that proves he’s not the prime suspect.”
“Really.” Mason glanced at Uncle Ross. “I hear you met with Deon Walsh’s sister. That you planned to talk Alex Silverman into hiring her. Is that true?”
“She has sales experience,” Uncle Ross said with a shrug. “Marketing, too.”
“Makes me wonder if you expected Taylor’s death.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Devonna sells lingerie.” Maddie leaned against the wall. “In people’s homes, at hostess parties. I’m a good friend. She never expressed interest in a job here.”
Detective Mason changed the subject. “I also learned that Lois Nichols had threatened Will Taylor during the staff meeting.”
Uncle Ross scoffed. “Sure, she said about the same thing I did about killing Taylor. And she had a better reason to keep her job. Her husband has cancer. She can’t afford to lose their insurance.”
I spoke up before Maddie could. “But neither of them is capable of murder.”
“All right. I’ve got everything I need for now. The shop and factory will be closed until further notice. Remember, Mr. Silverman, don’t leave town for any reason.”
Detective Mason strolled outside. Rosie stopped growling when the screen door banged shut behind him. I patted her on the head. “Good dog.”
“I suppose we’d better arrange for a notice in the newspaper about being closed.” Maddie’s dejection matched my own. “I’ll take care of that in the morning. What about you, Uncle Ross? Should we do an inventory while we have the chance?”
“I dunno. Do we—”
He couldn’t finish, since the Raiders tune blared from my cell. I jumped to answer, but my sister beat me. “Mom? . . . What happened? Is Dad okay?”
Both Uncle Ross and I rose to our feet, watching Maddie’s face. She’d paled a little but kept saying, “Uh-huh,” over and over again. I reached out to snatch the phone out of her hand, but Maddie twisted away. I mouthed the words, Speakerphone, but she ignored me. She could be as stubborn as my parents. Or me. And Uncle Ross, for that matter. Even Rosie.
“Okay . . . Okay, Mom, I will. Bye.” Maddie clicked the off button and tossed the phone to me. I nearly missed. Without a word, she raced for the stairs. “I’m packing a bag! Get me the next flight to Newark, Sash. Please.”
Uncle Ross stood. “I’m the one who ought to be—”
“You can’t go. Detective Mason won’t allow it,” I interrupted. “At least Mads can stay at the hospital and let Mom catch up on some sleep. She’ll keep us posted on Dad’s condition and find out what he said to Will at the trade show, too. I’ve got plenty to do for the picnic on Monday.”
He paced the kitchen in frustration. “I don’t care. I ought to be flying to New Jersey. Alex is my brother. He might take a turn for the worse!”
“We can’t jump to any conclusions. If it was life threatening, Mason would have to let you go—but it’s not. And remember, your Thunderbird is a traditional fixture in the village parade on Monday. Everyone expects to see you with all the teddy bears crammed in, and tin cans trailing behind the car.”
Uncle Ross only grumbled at the reminder. I retrieved my laptop. I quickly checked for the cheapest flight with enough time to spare so Maddie could get to the airport. I entered in the credit card information and confirmed the details, then printed the boarding pass; I raced to the office to snatch it from the machine’s output tray. The message light on the phone blinked like crazy. I didn’t have time to listen to any of them, though, and raced back to the kitchen.
Maddie waited by the back door, looking adorable in a white skort, a top with red and white stripes, plus a red cross-body purse. Sunglasses perched on her head. She held the handle of a paisley Vera Bradley weekender bag to wheel behind her. My sister, fashionable and ready for travel on a moment’s notice, even when stressed to the max.
“Six-oh-five departure, and don’t forget security takes extra time” I said, waving the pass before handing it over. “Want me to drive you to the airport?”
“Nah, I’ll drive myself.” Maddie checked her watch and then refastened her sturdy sandals. “Four hours to spare. I can park and take a shuttle to the terminal.”
“What did Judith say before you decided on a trip to New Jersey?” Uncle Ross asked. “Did the doctors update her on Alex’s condition?”
“I asked, but then Mom started crying. She’s so exhausted, she can’t think straight. That’s why I told her I would come right away. One of us should be there.”
“Better you than me, I suppose,” I said. “I’d probably make her more nervous. But do try and get an answer from Dad about what he and Will agreed on. Anything about the factory. Just call us, please. As often as possible.”
“Okay, no problem.” Maddie hugged me and pecked Uncle Ross on the cheek, although he scowled a little. “Hold down the fort.”
She headed outside, car keys jangling. Rosie jumped down from the window seat and nearly slipped out before the door shut. I caught her by the harness and dragged her back inside. One hand shading my eyes, I squinted at the distant Christmas shop.
“Looks like Detective Mason is across the street again. On the porch.”
“At least he’s bugging other people.” Uncle Ross ambled past me out the door. This time Rosie did escape; she squatted near a bush. My uncle shut the garden gate before she wandered off. “One thing I will say—Mason’s sharp. I doubt Digger Sykes would have asked me such rapid-fire questions, catching me off guard and repeating things in a different way. He’ll trip up others if they aren’t paying attention.”
Rosie and I waited by the gate, watching Mason jot in his notebook. Carolyn wasn’t in sight, but both Debbie and Cissy Davison nodded a few times and interrupted each other in their interview. If they were even aware of it as an opportunity for the detective to gain information.
A car barreled around the corner and screeched to a halt before the shop. I saw Nickie Richardson jump out of the SUV, along with Kristen Bloom, barely five feet tall. They rushed up the steps; Mason motioned them all inside. The sun sank lower toward a bank of dark clouds, setting the Christmas shop’s slate roof aglow. Where was Carolyn Taylor? I didn’t glimpse her inside among the group of women.
Oh well. I whistled for Rosie. “Come on, girl. Suppertime.”
Inside, her claws clicked over the tile. Onyx slunk around the island, clearly unhappy. She had every right to be. The last time my sister left on a trip, I’d forgotten to clean the litter box and replenish the cat’s dry kibble self-feeder. At least I’d remembered the gravy. I tore open a packet of cat food and set it high on the tower. She leaped to the middle and climbed her way slowly to sniff the bowl
with caution. Onyx turned up her nose and jumped to the floor. Rosie stretched along the window seat with a deep sigh.
At least one of us was happy.
Chapter 12
I fretted for the rest of the evening, which did turn stormy. Usually the patter of raindrops on the roof soothed me, but not tonight. I jumped at the occasional crash of thunder. That rattled my nerves. Why didn’t Maddie text or call? Instead of pacing the downstairs, I flipped through TV channels, checked e-mail and Facebook, and finally gave up. I couldn’t focus on anything. Frustration built inside me.
By ten o’clock, I took a decongestant for my sinus headache. Ate a few bites of a microwave dinner and tossed the rest. Searched for my secret stash of Girl Scout cookies in the freezer, took out a sleeve of Thin Mints, and began pacing. Within five minutes, I checked my cell again. I also held an empty sleeve in my hand. I couldn’t remember eating the cookies. At least my headache had subsided to a dull throb.
After brewing a cup of chamomile mint herbal tea, I picked up Barbara Ross’s latest cozy mystery book. I loved the Maine Clambake series, but my eyes swam. Reluctantly, I put the book down, walked around, checked my phone. Gaah.
I dialed my sister. “Hey, Maddie. Let me know you got there safe, okay? I’m worried sick. Text, call, whatever. I just need to know. Thanks.”
I hated leaving voice mail. Taking a deep breath, I headed for the office. I had to do something instead of walking around in circles and worrying. I ought to find the list of people signed up for Monday’s picnic. Dealing with that might be a good distraction.
The office occupied the one-story addition Dad had planned when he and an architect met to design renovations. They’d matched the Victorian exterior’s style and chosen gray vinyl siding for the entire building, new windows with black shutters, and new white doors. Mom moaned about the cost, but Dad was insistent. He wanted people to take note of the fresh look and the giant teddy bear he’d placed in an oversized rocking chair on the front porch.
The bear hadn’t lasted more than a few years, battered by weather and faded by the sun. Twice a groups of kids had targeted it for pranks. Dad once found Mr. Beary in the park, sitting at a picnic table, and mended rips squirrels had made; another time the police discovered the bear on the courthouse roof. No one claimed responsibility. Three high school students confessed—several years after graduating from college—and chipped in to replace the giant teddy with Mr. Silver, now safe in our upstairs loft.
I passed the alcove where I kept my own so-called desk. A table, actually, with a butcher-block top and legs painted white, holding stacks of paper and a caddy with pens, scissors, clips, tape, twine, and ribbon; a shelf held small baskets, our tiniest bears, boxes of tea, candy, and other items to make gift or charity donations. Books crammed two other shelves, from classics to mysteries to biographies. My floral-patterned Queen Anne chair was the most comfortable in the shop, but I rarely had time to sit and enjoy it.
“Nyx, get off.”
The cat loved it as well. She stretched first, her paws kneading the chintz fabric, arched her back slowly, and then slunk off the chair. Onyx padded her way to Maddie’s desk and curled beneath it. The wide six-drawer wooden desk had little clutter on top, with a Rolodex near the phone. She was far more organized. An array of file boxes, decorated with Snoopy as the Red Baron, Joe Cool, or lying on his doghouse with Woodstock fluttering above, sat beside rattan baskets with reams of paper and other supplies; a low filing cabinet held bright yellow Gerbera daisies in a ladybug-painted planter. Cute, just like her Peanuts mug. The desk light reminded me of the jumping Pixar animation lamp with its angular arms and rounded head, only painted gold. Maddie had spray-painted it last winter on a sunny, cold day. She always found the neatest things.
I sorted through a variety of drawings, some with cats or dogs hugging teddy bears, or “bee” bears in yellow and black with wings. Another showed a picnic theme, with bears stashed inside wicker hampers. My sister had earned an art design degree but balked at working in that field.
The list of picnic-goers—the names in alphabetical order—was pinned to a strip of cork on the wall below a shelf holding children’s books and bears.
“Ah. Her old Pooh bear.” I took the well-loved stuffed animal down and swiped a smidgeon of dust from his red felt shirt. “Good old Pooh.”
Her creativity seemed to be crammed into this small office. In comparison, Will Taylor’s larger office next door had an entire brick wall perpendicular to the huge window and its glorious view of the side flower garden—too dark to see anything now, of course. Rain spattered the glass at a steady pace. An animal skin covered the polished wood floor beneath the austere metal and wood desk. I disliked the ugly modern steel and leather chair and the two barrel-shaped visitor chairs. A landline phone sat on the desk with a handsome Mission-style Tiffany lamp.
At the sound of an incoming text, I perched on Will’s chair and scrolled down to read it. Arrived safe, nice hotel. Taking a cab to the hospital now.
Thank goodness. Maddie would figure out the situation with Mom and Dad and gauge how serious his condition was. I’d missed an earlier text message from Mary Kate Thompson. I dialed her number, but the call went straight to voice mail. Blarg. I checked the time and kicked myself. Ten o’clock! She was no doubt in bed already, since she rose at four in the morning to start baking at Fresh Grounds.
A flash of light through the wet windowpane caught my attention. I rose to glance outside. A small car, its headlights flickering, stopped in front of the Christmas shop. The rain had subsided to a fine mist. I didn’t have a pair of binoculars handy, so I couldn’t tell the type of car beyond its size, or who the late-night visitor might be. The building’s only lights twinkled along the roof. I couldn’t tell if Carolyn had returned to check the locks or if someone was trying to break in. Before I was tempted to dial 911, the car moved on.
Had it pulled into the Silver Leaf B and B? I couldn’t tell. Maybe one of their guests wanted to know the shop’s hours. It also might have been a friend of Carolyn’s. I hurried to the front window, close by Maddie’s desk, and checked out the Silver Leaf’s small parking strip. Trees shadowed the cars. Only a few lights glowed upstairs.
Relieved, I returned to Will’s office. Something about it bothered me. The size of the room? Yes, but also the garden view, and the brick on the wall that cost Dad a fortune to install. Will had insisted, though, claiming it added prestige to the “look” and his company title as Sales Representative. Ha. Few visitors ever came to his office. He always met vendors at shows. Come to think of it, Will rarely used this space.
One thing was certain. I’d move my sister’s things into this room, paint the brick white, and take down half of the wall between this office and the smaller one. Maddie deserved a better view. A fresher décor for all the hard work she did for our business.
I punched the blinking message button on the phone. A woman’s voice filled the room. “Hello? This is Mrs. Bishop. I’d like a refund for our teddy bear picnic tickets—”
“Oh no.”
Four other women had left similar messages, all starting this morning around ten o’clock. Speechless, I listened to the worry underlying their terse voices and sighed. How could I blame them? Moms wanted to protect their kids. I’d probably do the same. After all, village residents might not realize the murder had occurred in the factory—not in the shop, not at the park—but until rumors were replaced by facts we’d suffer guilt by association.
I wondered if anyone would show up on Monday for the picnic. After jotting down the names on a notepad, I tore off the sheet and pocketed it. Then I stopped. Why hadn’t Will locked his desk? That seemed odd. I took advantage of the opportunity to search for anything important. Chances were good he didn’t keep much but the basics in his desk. I opened a side drawer. Business cards, check. Letterhead, check. Envelopes, check.
Pay stubs had been tossed into the bottom drawer. My eyes popped wide when I saw the figure before
taxes. I didn’t realize Will made that much for a salary. Maddie took care of payroll. Once, before Dad hired Taylor, I’d cut the checks and handed out the envelopes to the staff. I vowed our next sales rep would start at the bottom of the scale, for certain, and never earn more than I did.
After rummaging through the other side drawer, holding business letters for the most part, I stopped. All of them were dated over the last few weeks. All of them had been sent by longtime suppliers of our fabric, thread, eye studs, tags, and the fiberfill stuffing. And the companies all thanked our business for being a loyal customer, with hopes that he would reconsider the decision. Uh-huh. Apparently Will had canceled our contracts without telling Dad or any of us. That was further proof that sending production overseas was a done deal—in Will’s eyes.
Now we’d have to call and explain it was all a mistake.
Ugh. I was terrible at such tasks, keeping conversations on track, and had been flustered talking to Detective Mason. Uncle Ross would have to deal with our vendors and explain—without details—about Will’s death. And renew the contracts.
The narrow middle drawer held an assortment of paper clips, a box of staples, pens, a small bottle of liquid white-out, even earphones with a tangled cord. Plus a prescription bottle with Blake’s Pharmacy label and a few pills left—I recognized the drug as a blood pressure medicine, since Dad used the same one. A plastic comb missing a few teeth lay atop one of the teddy bear key rings we sold in the shop, with a tiny brass key. Hmm.
I glanced around and saw a small wooden box on a high shelf. Lucky for me I was tall enough to retrieve it. And the key fitted and turned. I removed a business card. The rectangular, glossy-coated cardstock had a plush bear printed on it, gold edging, and a row of red hearts. Below that was Teddy Hartman’s name and phone number printed in large black letters.
I flipped the card over. A note had been scribbled on the blank side. Lunch Thu 9/3. I smiled. This was proof that Will Taylor had arranged to meet the toy company owner before his trip to New Jersey.