“You could’ve just stolen the painting,” I pointed out, reaching for another donut. “It was right there, in a house with a broken lock. Why stalk me, then show up here wearing a sheet and wielding a carrot?”
Fidelia shrugged. “I kept thinking I’d ask you for the painting, if I could just get up the nerve and find the right words. Then I’d have it legally. But when you removed it from the house, I realized you probably planned to keep it—or sell it. Maybe quickly, if you’d learned its value. I couldn’t be sure Miss Flynt was right about your lack of interest in money. I got a little desperate.”
“Yeah, I guess you did,” I agreed.
Her gaze flicked to the sheet, which I’d hung on a peg near the door. The carrot was in the icebox. “I suppose my plan was flawed.”
“Well, you tried,” I said encouragingly. “Your approach was definitely original.”
Socrates groaned, and Fidelia didn’t take much comfort from my words, either. Her head thudded to the table, and I barely heard her mumble, “I never think things through.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I ate my second donut while I waited for her to lift her head. When she finally sat up again, she sighed heavily. “I suppose you think I’m lying about the night of the gala, and that I killed Lillian Flynt.”
I shook my head. “No, I do not think that. You couldn’t even steal a work of art worth thousands—”
“Hundreds of thousands.”
“Worth hundreds of thousands of dollars,” I continued, with a quick peek at the Woman in Red. Impasto or no impasto, I still didn’t understand what the fuss was about. “You’re not a killer.”
Fidelia drooped lower in the chair. “I’m not an anything. As my father often told me.”
I watched as she finally took a sip of her drink. And, while I agreed in theory with Miss Flynt’s assertion that Fidelia needed to pull her life together, I also felt sorry for the young woman who sat across from me, feeling completely worthless.
“I have a lousy father, too, you know,” I told her. “And my mother can also be a handful, to say the least. But you can’t let your parents define your life. As the French philosopher Voltaire once said, Each player must accept the cards life deals him or her. But once they are in hand, he or she alone must decide how to play them.”
Fidelia blinked at me. “Wow. Are you a philosopher, or something?”
“More like a perpetual student of philosophy.”
Fidelia observed me for a moment, then said, “I think I might understand why Lillian left the painting to you.”
That was reassuring, because I still had no clue.
“So, what are you going to do now?” I asked, checking the old clock on the oven. I needed to get to Moxie’s soon. “You can’t stay in Flynt Mansion forever. It’s going to be a museum someday.”
“I moved out already, tonight,” Fidelia said. “That place was too spooky. I’m staying at the hotel in town again. Although I don’t know how I’ll pay off the credit card bill.”
“You must be good at something,” I said, rising and taking my mug to the sink. “Have some way to make a living?”
“Well, I really love accounting.”
I turned around to see that Fidelia’s eyes were actually alight.
“Really?” I struggled to hide my disbelief. I couldn’t imagine loving accounting, but to each her own. “Do you have a degree?”
Fidelia’s cheeks flushed. “Yes. But it’s from an online school. The course only took ten weeks.”
That didn’t inspire much confidence, but I kept thinking about how Jonathan Black had taken a similarly woebegone orphan under his wing, and after a moment’s hesitation, I suggested, “Why don’t you keep the books for my business, Lucky Paws Pet Sitting? They’re a mess. Because I don’t really keep books. But maybe you could help me start.”
Fidelia beamed. “Really? You’d hire me?”
I didn’t have extra money to pay salaries, but I nodded. “Sure. Although I can’t pay you much. You’d mainly get some experience to put on your resume.”
That wasn’t a very good offer, but it was apparently the best one Fidelia Tuttweiler had right then. My new employee rose, came over to the sink, and hugged me. “Thank you so much!”
Returning the awkward embrace, I patted her back. “You’re welcome.” Then, when she pulled away, I asked, “Do you want to come with me to my friend’s house tonight? We’re going to hand out candy to trick-or-treaters. It’s pretty fun.”
“Thanks, that’s a nice invitation.” Fidelia swiped a finger under her eyes. Was she crying? “But I think I’ll just go back to the hotel. I want to brush up on my accounting. I might still be able to log on to the SUA website and access some course materials. I just graduated.”
I cocked my head. “What is SUA?”
“Soaring Upward Academy,” Fidelia informed me.
The name was more suitable for a preschool than an institution of higher learning, and I hoped I wouldn’t regret my decision to hire one of the academy’s graduates.
I could also picture the school’s logo, which would probably include a bird, soaring skyward, perhaps off a book....
“They didn’t send you a jacket when you enrolled, did they?” I asked, picturing the symbol I’d seen on the windbreaker and the Casita Burrito cart. I doubted that an online university had reached out to Sylvan Creek’s Howl-o-Ween Parade organizers to raise money, but some schools were technically nonprofits. “Like, a promotional windbreaker?”
Fidelia was clearly puzzled. “No . . .”
“Never mind,” I said, just as my telephone rang. “And hang on a minute, okay? I need to get this.”
Not waiting for her response, I hurried upstairs to my loft, lifted the receiver, and said, “Hello?”
“When are you getting a new cell phone?” my mother demanded, without greeting me. “It’s time to admit that the old one will never work correctly, and I need to get in touch with you at times!”
“What is so urgent?” I asked, leaning over the railing to watch Fidelia don her sheet and rip one eyehole until it was big enough for her head to fit through, creating a makeshift poncho.
Was I really going to trust her with what little money I had . . . ?
“Daphne, listen to me!”
“I’m listening,” I promised Mom. “What is wrong?”
“There was blood on that ugly jacket!” My mother sounded uncharacteristically shaken. “Lillian’s blood. And the police were able to lift one set of fingerprints from the cheap fabric.”
I didn’t want to ask, but I had to do it. “Whose prints were they?”
There was a moment of suitably dramatic silence, then my mother announced, “Mine, of course!”
Chapter 56
“Do you think your mom’s really in trouble?” Moxie asked, dumping a big bag of chocolate skulls into a bowl that featured a clawlike hand sticking out of the center. Whenever a trick-or-treater would reach for a piece of candy, the hand would clamp down. Moxie went all out for Halloween. Her tiny garret apartment was strung from its creaking wooden floors to its exposed rafters with strands of lights shaped like witches and ghosts and skeletons, and she had carved about ten artful jack-o’-lanterns, which grinned at me from the nooks formed by the turrets and sharply peaked eaves of the old Victorian house. Socrates, who lay on a Turkish rug I’d brought Moxie from Istanbul, kept one eye on a huge, fuzzy spider that lurked in a web stretched across the apartment’s darkest corner. “I mean, your mother admitted to picking up the jacket, and it was in her tote bag,” Moxie added. “Just because her fingerprints are on the fabric doesn’t mean she killed Miss Flynt.”
Even as Moxie reminded me of that, we exchanged skeptical looks, silently agreeing that Jonathan and Detective Doebler probably wouldn’t rule out the possibility. If Lillian Flynt had told Realtor Maeve Templeton that she’d changed her mind about selling the mansion and planned to honor her earlier promise to leave the property to the historical society . . .
“I think Mom will be all right,” I said, shaking off the image of my mother wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. The shapeless design and unflattering color would kill her, even before she got into an inevitable fight with her cell mate over who deserved the best bunk. I was positive that my mom would go for “prime real estate” under even the most dire circumstances. “I’m not going to worry yet,” I added, plucking a skull from the bowl and narrowly escaping the hand. I unwrapped the foil and popped the candy into my mouth. “In fact, I almost feel sorry for Jonathan, who’ll have to question Mom again.”
“Yeah, I kind of feel bad, too,” Moxie agreed.
Although I’d liked her Kim Novak look, I was glad to see that my best friend was dressed as one of the Pink Ladies from Grease, in a satin jacket, shiny black pedal pushers, and black heels. In truth, the outfit was hardly a costume by Moxie’s standards.
“Hey, how come you’re not wearing your witch cape?” Moxie asked, seeming to read my mind, as I thought she often did. Talk about spooky, but in a good way. “Or the clown suit?”
“I am never wearing that cape again after getting humiliated at the gala.” I bent to pick up my jack-o’-lantern, which I’d set on the floor near the door. “And the clown costume is downstairs in my van. It reminds me of the awful night I found Pastor Pete, and I’m going to return it to Lighthouse Fellowship tonight.”
“You must’ve been terrified,” Moxie sympathized, opening yet another bag of candy. Sylvan Creek drew a lot of trick-or-treaters. “I can’t believe you got chased through a lonely orchard, then found another body.”
I pulled off my pumpkin’s ill-fitting lid. “Yeah, Jonathan seemed unhappy about that, too.”
“Do you think the same person who murdered Miss Flynt also killed the minister?” Moxie mused aloud. “Is there a connection?”
“I keep trying to find one. But I can’t. And, to be honest, for a while I thought Pastor Pete killed Lillian. She was treasurer of Lighthouse Fellowship, and he was misusing funds. I have a feeling she found out the truth at some point. I saw a note on his calendar about meeting someone with the initials LF the day Miss Flynt was murdered.”
Moxie’s eyes lit up at the prospect of juicy gossip. “So those rumors were true? He was really stealing from his parishioners?”
I recalled my promise to Jonathan about keeping the investigation into Pastor Kishbaugh’s finances quiet. “Maybe,” I conceded. “But you can’t say a word. It’s all speculation at this point, and I promised Jonathan I wouldn’t spread any stories. He told me a few things in confidence.”
Moxie got a different kind of gleam in her eye. “So, you had some sort of secret discussion with Detective Black, huh?”
“Moxie . . .”
“Oh, fine.” My tone must’ve been sufficiently discouraging, because she sighed. “I’ll drop it.”
“Thanks,” I said, lighting a small candle and sticking that into my pumpkin, which didn’t look nearly as nice as Moxie’s jack-o’-lanterns.
“Where’s Piper?” Moxie asked, as I carried my glowing creation to the balcony that overlooked the street. A pair of arched French doors was flung open to let in a pleasantly warm, pre-rain breeze, as well as a lot of leaves from a pair of tall, matched oaks that made the apartment feel like a tree house.
“I have no idea where my sister is,” I said, setting my jack-o’-lantern on the railing so the kids passing below would see it. “I stopped by the farmhouse, hoping to convince her to get out of those sweatpants she’s been wearing lately and come with me, but she wasn’t there. . . .”
My voice trailed off, because as I looked down at the street, I saw none other than Piper, who was strolling along the sidewalk with the guy who’d bought her cider at the Howl-o-Ween Parade. She was gazing up at the man, who was fairly tall, and smiling as they both talked animatedly.
She obviously didn’t see me, and I started to call out to her.
Then, in a rare moment of self-control, I stopped myself.
Something told me to just leave my sister, and whomever she was with, alone.
Turning around, I went back inside and found that Moxie had put the Doggy Donuts—made with eggs, flour, yogurt, and honey—into a bone-shaped bowl. She’d also piled several of my apple cider donuts onto an olive green Melmac plate shaped like the Star Trek officers’ insignia. She didn’t have much of a kitchen, let alone a dining room, and she set the plate on a pile of colorful, vintage suitcases that served as her coffee table. She’d already placed two glass bottles filled with cold, white milk on the makeshift table, too.
“Let’s have a snack before we go downstairs to greet the little hobgoblins,” she suggested, sitting cross-legged on the floor. “I’m starving.”
I joined her, but said, “I’m actually pretty full. I ate two of these donuts with Davis Tuttweiler’s daughter, Fidelia, after she showed up on my doorstep dressed as a ghost and threatened to kill me with a carrot.”
Wow, that sounded weird when I said it out loud, and Moxie, who uttered a lot of crazy things herself, seemed to agree. She choked on her donut and had to smack her hand against her chest, then take a sip of milk through a very cute black-and-orange-striped paper straw. When she composed herself, she asked incredulously, “Davis Tuttweiler’s daughter tried to kill you with a carrot?” She coughed, still clearing her throat, then added, “How did that happen? And why?”
“Fidelia thinks—or thought—that the portrait of the woman in red should’ve been rightfully hers,” I explained. “She’s been following me around, trying to get up the nerve to ask me for the painting.” I really wasn’t hungry, but I picked up a donut anyhow and broke off a piece. “She finally worked up the courage tonight—and went a little overboard.” I shrugged. “We ended up talking, and I’m keeping the portrait for now.”
“Poor Fidelia.” Moxie made a sad face. “It sounds like she embarrassed herself.”
Over on the rug, Socrates snorted and fell over sideways, like he couldn’t agree more.
“Yes, Fidelia’s sort of a lost soul,” I noted. “She had hoped Miss Flynt would bequeath her the painting since Lillian didn’t have any heirs. But Miss Flynt changed her mind, right before she was killed.”
“Jeez, maybe Fidelia’s the killer,” Moxie suggested.
I took a sip of milk, too, then said, “I really don’t think so.”
Moxie helped herself to the donut I hadn’t finished. “So? Are you ever going to give her the painting?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. That clearly wasn’t Miss Flynt’s intent. I’m giving Fidelia a job, instead. She’s a newly graduated accountant, and she’s going to straighten out my books.”
Or destroy my business.
“This whole murder gets crazier and crazier,” Moxie observed, wiping her sugary fingers on her pedal pushers. “I don’t think Hitchcock could’ve come up with all these weird characters. And you still have no idea what you’re supposed to do with the portrait, do you?”
“Not a clue,” I admitted, as Moxie rose to clear away the plate and her empty bottle.
I stayed seated for a moment, reflecting on what she’d just said about the murder, the “characters” who’d been at odds with Miss Flynt before her death, and Hitchcock’s movies, in which no one was ever really trustworthy.
Pastor Pete had certainly pulled the wool over a lot of people’s eyes.
And Bea Baumgartner’s whole life was a lie, in a way.
How could I be so sure that Fidelia Tuttweiler, whom I’d just met, was as meek as she seemed?
Or that Asa Whitaker’s fragile, needy persona wasn’t just an act?
Taking another sip of milk, I thought about the video footage of Martha Whitaker, from the library’s security cameras.
Could even that be trusted?
People tampered with technology all the time.
I swallowed hard.
All joking aside, was I positive that my own mother was innocent, given how badly she’d wanted that
sale?
“Daphne?”
Moxie’s voice brought me back to reality, and I looked over to see her checking a watch with a pink face and the silhouette of a black poodle, right in the center.
“Did you say something?” I asked.
“I was just reminding you that, if you want to return your clown suit before the trick-or-treaters arrive, you should probably go now. It’s getting late.”
Untwisting my legs, I stood up. “Yeah, I do want to get rid of the new ugly mask I had to buy and those stupid, oversized shoes. . . .”
All at once, as I mentioned the way too big footwear that was waiting in my VW, my mind flashed back to the night I’d discovered Miss Flynt’s body in her bathtub, after I’d first found Tinkleston under her bed.
He’d looked adorable, sitting in a slipper.
Then I pictured the note I’d taken from the kitchen, too.
The unusual, loopy initials, LF . . .
My heart started pounding, and I told Moxie, “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to hand out the candy this year. I can’t help you.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked, as I hurried toward the door, with Socrates close on my heels, like he knew what was happening. “Where are you going?”
“I actually have three stops to make,” I told her, pausing to grab a few doggy and people donuts, which I stuck into two sacks. “And, hopefully, at the last one, I’ll unmask another killer!”
Chapter 57
Socrates and I first dropped off the clown costume, hanging it on the coatrack at Lighthouse Fellowship, where Tamara Fox had left it for me. Although the new mask I’d purchased wasn’t quite as creepy as the one I’d lost, the outfit still gave me the willies, and I hurried out of the church, looking back once at the oversized red shoes I’d tucked under the droopy, nylon suit.
As I helped Socrates into the VW and buckled his harness, I asked, “Do you really think I might be onto something?”
He gave me a level stare. He clearly believed I shouldn’t even think about solving Miss Flynt’s murder.
“I don’t plan on doing this alone,” I assured him, sliding behind the wheel and turning the key, so the engine sputtered to life. Then I checked the gas gauge. I did not want to run out of fuel, where I was going. Luckily, the tank was slightly over half full, assuming that the gauge could be trusted, and I put the VW in gear, driving slowly out of Sylvan Creek, because the streets were filling up with trick-or-treaters.
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