A Mold For Murder

by Myers, Tim

  It wasn’t as bad as I’d feared, but I knew I couldn’t live with the damage, even though it probably wasn’t even structural. I loved my sports car, and I couldn’t bear to see it beat up or dented in any way. I’d have to call Harry at Auto Finesse and see if he could fit me in. No doubt he’d have some classic he was restoring that I could borrow until the Miata was repaired. He’d sold the Mustang I’d rented from him before after fixing it up, but I knew there was always another project for him.

  For now, though, it was time to go to Where There’s Soap until I could figure out what my next move was.

  Every sister was waiting for me in the boutique area of our shop when I walked in. I knew they were there for me by the similar expressions on their faces.

  “Ben, you can’t keep taking chances like that,” Cindy said.

  “Yeah, you’re not bulletproof,” Louisa added.

  “Though you like to think that you are,” Kate finished.

  I shook my head as I looked at them, each in their turn. “Is that the best you can do? Where are the guys? And why isn’t Mom out here with you?”

  Louisa admitted, “Once our other brothers found out you were all right, with minimal property damage, they lost interest in what happened last night.”

  Cindy said, “That’s not true, and you know it. I’m sure they’re all eager to hear about your exploits. Don’t lie to them too much, Ben. You know how they get.”

  “Boys will be boys, won’t they? Mom’s not in yet,” Kate added. “She’s going to be late.”

  “You’re kidding me,” I said. “She’s never late.”

  “Don’t you think we know that? That’s why we’re worried about her,” Cindy said. “She was awfully mysterious yesterday when she told us she wouldn’t be here in time to open the shop.”

  I walked past them. “It sounds like she’s the one you three should be worried about, not me.” I didn’t know what Mom was up to, but if it meant some of the intensity of my sisters’ normal scrutiny was deflected away from me, I would do my best to take advantage of it.

  I wanted to go to my office, since it was a great place to think, but that meant I had to go through my brothers in back.

  “I told you he was okay,” Jeff said, then turned to me. “They didn’t believe me.”

  “It’s not like you haven’t exaggerated things before,” Jim said.

  Bob came to his defense. “That happened when he was in the third grade. When are you going to get over it?”

  Jim scratched his chin. “Maybe in another year or two.” He looked me up and down, then asked, “How bad is the Miata?”

  “Bad enough to need a new bumper,” I admitted. “Jeff, have you talked to Molly this morning?”

  He got my meaning instantly. “She said they didn’t find a single trace of the car that tried to run you off the road. It was as if the thing vanished into thin air.”

  “Like I said, it was probably just a drunk driver.”

  Bob put a hand on my shoulder. “So what exactly happened?”

  “Some maniac kept trying to clip me from behind, but I floored it and got away.”

  Jim said, “Man, I would have loved to be riding beside you when you did that. How fast did she go?”

  “I didn’t have time to look down at the speedometer,” I admitted, “but I was flying. You’ve got to be careful on the roads these days. There are maniacs everywhere.”

  “One less than usual right now, since you’re here,” Jim said with a grin.

  “I can’t argue with you there. It’s no big deal, guys. A drunk got mean, and I was the only target around.”

  I left them debating the merits of that particular theory as I headed upstairs to my office. I walked in, put my feet up on my desk, and tried to decide what I was going to do next.

  There was a knock at my door a minute later, and Louisa walked in. “Ben, Mom just called. She’s not going to be able to make it in time for the private lesson she scheduled for this morning, and she wants you to teach it.”

  “Why can’t somebody else do it?” I asked. I was intent on solving Connie Brown’s murder, and I didn’t want to take a second away from it if I could help it.

  “Why, because you’re so busy?”

  “Believe it or not, I am. I’m thinking,” I said.

  “I know how taxing that must be for you, but we’re tied up with inventory. It’s enough trouble to stop when a customer comes in, but we need all three of us to do it right. I guess one of the guys could teach the class in a pinch.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said as I started to stand. My brothers were not great teachers, as a rule. “What’s the class? Basic Soapmaking?”

  “No, this woman already knows how to make soap. She’s interested in botanicals.”

  While I was proficient enough with the plants we used in our soapmaking, botanicals were Mom’s specialty. I’d have to muddle through somehow. “Fine, I’ll teach it. When does it start? I need a little time to brush up on my notes.”

  Louisa smiled at me. “You’d better make it quick, then. Your pupil is downstairs in the classroom waiting for you.”

  I shook my head as I hurried past her. “Thanks for the advance notice.”

  “Thank Mom, don’t thank me,” Louisa said.

  I found a prim, middle-aged woman with a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other waiting for me in the classroom.

  “I’m Ben Perkins,” I said as I offered to shake her hand.

  “My name is Opal Blake.” She looked at my extended hand as if it were covered in slime. “I was expecting a woman.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m perfectly qualified to teach you whatever you need to know.” That was a stretch, but I knew just enough about every part of the soapmaking process to be dangerous. “Of course, if you’d like to reschedule your private session, I’d be more than happy to set you up with another teacher at a different time.”

  She frowned, bit her lip, then finally shook her head. “No, that’s all right. I suppose you’ll do.”

  I didn’t take offense. I took her mild lack of enthusiasm as a challenge, and I was more than up to it.

  “Very good,” I said. “Let’s start with the a’s, shall we? I don’t suppose you’d count almond meal or oil, so we’ll begin with aloe vera gel. We have anise oil, apricots, avocados, buttermilk—”

  “That’s not what I wanted to know,” Opal said plaintively. “Didn’t anyone tell you what the session was supposed to cover? How on earth can you teach me when you don’t even know the subject matter?”

  “I’m sorry; I understood you were interested in the botanical products used in soapmaking.”

  She scowled at me as she said, “I can read a book if I want to know all that, or even study your shelves.” She shifted her disgruntled gaze to the shelf of additives I’d been reading from, then offered me another look of complete contempt.

  There was only one thing I could do. I had to press on, no matter what woman’s opinion of me was. “So tell me, Opal, what exactly would you like to know?”

  “I’m interested in seeing the actual plants, not the processed oils. Can you do that?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Let’s go out into the garden.”

  “That’s more like it,” she said.

  I walked with Opal out of the classroom, through the boutique—stopping to give Louisa a frown along the way—then led my student outside to our herb and flower plot.

  I led her to the edge of the garden, reached down and plucked a small, needlelike leaf. “This is rosemary,” I said as I handed it to her. “For our purposes, it’s used to treat acne, dandruff, asthma, poor circulation and to soothe nerves. Some folks even believe it promotes hair growth.”

  I knelt down to the bed beside it and retrieved a small, fan-shaped leaf.

  When I handed it to her, she asked, “And what’s this?”

  “Rub it between your hands, then smell it,” I instructed.

  “It’s peppermint,�
� she said, startled by the revelation.

  “On the nose,” I said. “We’ve got a dozen other mints growing here. It happens to blend well with rosemary, but it’s important not to use too much of it.”

  “I love the scent. It reminds me of my grandfather. What happens if you overdo it?”

  “Do you mean besides the overwhelming smell? It can irritate your skin, and we frown on anything that can do that here. A soap should offer comfort and respite, not discomfort.”

  “What’s that over there?” she asked as she pointed to a bed of chamomile.

  “That’s a plant that’s been used since the time of the Egyptians. It’s not just good for soapmaking. It will lighten your hair, help a toothache and it also makes a great cup of tea. Any guesses?”

  “I never guess,” she said formally. “I must know. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Okay, then I’ll tell you. It’s chamomile.”

  I heard a pair of high heels clicking toward us and saw my mother approach, loaded down with packages. She thrust them at me as she said, “Mrs. Blake, I’m so sorry I’m late.”

  “Was there some kind of emergency?”

  Mom shrugged. “My watch battery died at the most inopportune time. I’d be happy to step aside if you’d like so you can continue the lesson with my son, or I’d be equally pleased to take over.”

  Opal Blake looked at me, then said, “No offense intended, Mr. Perkins, but if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to switch teachers.”

  “I’m not offended at all,” I said, letting some of the relief I felt slip onto my face. “You’re in good hands.”

  “Thank you, Benjamin,” Mom said, then turned to her student. “Now, where were we?”

  “Chamomile,” Mrs. Blake said primly.

  I left them to it and walked back inside. The first sister I saw—who happened to be Kate—got the packages. “These are Mom’s. She’s teaching my student now, and I have to go out.”

  “Playing hooky already? It’s a little early in the day, isn’t it?” Kate asked with a smile.

  “Hardly. I’m looking for a murderer.”

  She nodded somberly. “I shouldn’t have teased you. Good luck, Ben.”

  I accepted that, then said, “I just wish I didn’t need so much of it.”

  I got into the Miata and drove off before I was shanghaied into another soapmaking task. It was time to take a more active role in finding Connie’s murderer, and I knew I’d been holding back in deference to Diana. That was the wrong thing to do, because I wasn’t giving it my full effort. Maybe it was because I was afraid of what I might find out. Whatever happened, I had to believe in my heart it would be better knowing the truth than suspecting a darkness within my girlfriend that might not even be there.

  I needed to talk to Diana, and this time, I was going to have to ask her some very hard questions.

  I found Rufus taking photographs in front of Dying To Read when I got there. He looked oblivious to the world as he studied the shop through his lens.

  “Is your boss inside?” I asked him.

  He looked startled to see me. “Man, you’ve got to stop sneaking up on me like that.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think I was being particularly stealthy. Is Diana inside?”

  “No, she’s at her aunt and uncle’s place. You know where that is, don’t you? I’m the only one working here, until she tells me different.”

  I gestured to the bookstore. “If you’re out here, then who’s inside waiting on customers?”

  He shook his head. “We haven’t had anybody come by all morning. What sense does it make for me to sit inside when there’s nobody there?”

  At that moment, the bookstore’s front door opened and a timid little man stepped out. “Excuse me, but do either one of you work here? I’ve been waiting at the counter for ten minutes to buy this book, but no one seems to be inside.”

  “I’ll be right with you,” Rufus said, and the man ducked back in. Rufus looked defiantly at me and said, “So, one guy slipped past me. It’s no big deal.”

  As he walked in to ring up the sale, Rufus asked, “Should I call Diana and tell her you came by looking for her?”

  “No, I’ll talk to her later myself. Thanks.”

  “Yeah,” he said as he went back into the bookstore. His vigilance and dedication to his work was actually slipping, if that were possible, but that was Diana’s problem. Or at least one of them.

  I decided to drive out to Hunter’s Hollow and talk to Diana and her aunt and uncle at the same time. I’d wanted to ask them about their own alibis for the time of the murder. After all, they’d lost two people they’d loved, too.

  Diana looked shocked when she answered the door at the Long’s house. She was barefoot, and wore blue jeans and an old football jersey sporting a bulldog and a big 82 on it.

  “Ben, what are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you,” I said.

  “Look at the way I’m dressed,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I didn’t know you played football,” I said with a smile, trying to break some of the tension that still hung between us.

  “It belonged to an old boyfriend from high school. I caught him flirting with another girl, so I kept his jersey after I broke up with him. Listen, I’m not happy about the way we left things the last time.”

  “I’m not either,” I said.

  The look of relief on her face was only temporary as I added, “But there are some questions that need to be asked, and until they are, there’s going to be a big wall between us. You don’t want that, do you?”

  “You know I don’t,” she said, “but I’m not sure why you’re digging into this so hard. Why don’t you let Molly handle it like you said you were going to do?”

  “Because the murder occurred in my shop,” I said, “and if I hadn’t invited Connie Brown to Harper’s Landing, it never would have happened here at all.”

  “Ben, you can’t blame yourself,” she said softly.

  “I’m not, but I’d be a fool to think that I’m not at least somewhat responsible. Diana, I need the truth.”

  “I’ve never told you anything else,” she said.

  “I consider omission as big a sin as commission.”

  “You know what? Maybe it would be better if you left after all.” The affection in her voice that I’d felt in the past was gone now.

  “I’m not going anywhere without answers,” I said.

  “What do you expect me to say, that I killed her? I didn’t, but if I’d known who she was before that signing, I might have.” Diana’s eyes flared as she added, “She killed my parents. She deserved to die.”

  I couldn’t believe this was the same sweet woman I’d been dating. At that moment, I fully believed that Diana was capable of killing Connie Brown, something I hadn’t been able to visualize at all since the murder.

  Suddenly behind her, Mr. and Mrs. Long showed up. Diana’s uncle said, “Ben? Is that you? Invite him in, Diana. What’s wrong with you, girl, have you lost all your manners?”

  “Ben can’t stay,” she said. “He was just leaving.”

  “Actually, I have a minute or two,” I said, trying to ignore the daggers in Diana’s glare.

  “Excellent,” Mrs. Long said. “Come in and have some tea.”

  I stepped past Diana and walked into the living room. It was a shrine to Diana, with photographs from every year of her life, and events with the most trivial significance were treated with reverence and awe. The Longs hadn’t been able to have any children of their own, and when they took Diana in, every ounce of their parental desires apparently flooded out onto her. It was a wonder she could survive it without becoming the world’s biggest narcissist.

  “I’ll be right back with a tray,” Mrs. Long said.

  “Thanks, but I don’t need any tea. What I really came here for are answers.”

  Diana said, “Ben, I told you, I’m done discussing this with you.”


  “You’re not the only one who could be involved here,” I said.

  It took Diana’s uncle a second to get it. “You’re talking about that woman’s murder, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” I said.

  Mrs. Long said, “Ben, you can’t think Diana had anything to do with that, can you?”

  Her husband patted her hand. “He’s talking about us, too, dear.”

  “That’s it,” Diana said abruptly. “Ben, you’re leaving. You’re not welcome here anymore.”

  I stood, but as I started to leave, Mr. Long said sadly, “Not that we need to tell you anything, but my wife and I were in Charlotte the entire afternoon on the day of the murder.”

  “Can you prove that?” I asked.

  “I can and I have,” he said. “I’ve already told the police from Harper’s Landing, but I’m not going to satisfy your whim without more reason than you’ve given me. Diana was right. It’s time you left.”

  Mrs. Long scowled at me as I stepped past her toward the door. It appeared that I was three for three in offending the Longs. As I walked out to the Miata, I saw Diana staring at me through the front window. She was crying—I could see it from there—but I didn’t have any comfort to offer her.

  I was more upset by the confrontation with Diana and her family than I cared to acknowledge. While it was true that I might not have had the right to ask the hard questions, someone had to, and I’d been under the impression that no one had. After our conversation though, it was pretty obvious that Molly had already interviewed Mr. and Mrs. Long. I just wished she would have shared that particular tidbit with me.

  On the other hand, I had to admit that I was starting to see how Molly could think that Diana could have done it. One look in her eyes was all I’d needed to confirm that I couldn’t rule her out as a suspect, no matter what my relationship was with her. But while there were other possibilities, I was determined to focus on them.

  As I drove toward home, I considered everyone else I believed was motivated enough to commit murder. Sharon Goldsmith, Betsy Blair, and Barry Hill were all on my list; Brian Ross was on it, too.