by J. R. Ripley
I know I talked, and I suppose some of what I said made sense, but I couldn’t remember a word of it afterward. All I could think about was how I had seen Rose Smith standing over Mason Livingston calmly professing to having murdered him.
And now she was free.
Before I knew it, I was free to go, too. I rose and started for the door. I wanted to have a word with Dan Sutton, but it would have to wait until we were out of his boss’s earshot.
“Just a second, Amy.” Chief Kennedy swaggered toward me at the front of the station.
Amy? It wasn’t often that Jerry called me by my first name. “Yes?” I asked.
He fidgeted in the doorway, his hands on his black leather belt. “You know the wife.”
“Sandra? Yes, of course. What about her?”
“Well, she’s got this silly idea in her head that she wants to renew our wedding vows.” He looked like he’d bit into a lemon.
“Really? How fun.” Though I often wondered what she saw in Jerry Kennedy, I realize it takes two to make a pair, and Jerry did adore her. “That’s a wonderful idea. What made the two of you decide to do it now?”
“I don’t know about wonderful.” He turned a quieting gaze on Sutton and Reynolds, who were snickering at their desks. “But I know what got the idea in her head. It’s that new wedding dress store opening up on Main.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “You mean Dream Gowns?”
“That’s the place.”
“Why are you telling me all this, Jerry? Do I get to be a bridesmaid? Walk you down the aisle, perhaps?” I winked at Sutton and Reynolds, who were trying with little success to smother their laughter with their hands over their mouths.
“Very funny. I was wondering . . .”
“Yes?”
“Maybe you can get me and Sandra a discount on the wedding gown. Darn things are crazy expensive. And seeing how you’re friends with Amy Harlan—”
My brow shot up. “Friends with Amy Harlan?! Believe me, Jerry.” I dug in my purse for the keys to my van. “It would be a big stretch to call me and Derek’s ex friends.”
Jerry was clearly disappointed.
“Fine,” I said, knowing I’d regret my words. “I’ll ask.” I waggled my finger at him. “But that’s all I’m going to do. No promises.”
“Thanks, Amy. I’ll let Sandra know. She’ll be tickled.” He rested a hand on my shoulder. “In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me none if she did ask you to be one of her bridesmaids.”
Oh, great. I pictured a horrible, ill-fitting, eggplant-colored bridesmaid dress in my future. “Now that I’ve done you a favor, how about doing a little one for me?”
“Such as?” Jerry asked, eyes narrowing.
“Such as telling me if you have any other suspects in Mason Livingston’s death?”
Jerry beamed. “Oh, I’ve got me a real good one.”
“Do you mind telling me who?”
Jerry remained silent a moment, toying with me, no doubt. “Amber Smith.”
“Rose’s daughter? But she couldn’t have done it. She was camping out by the lake last night.”
Jerry cleared his throat. “Amber Smith was also in attendance at the book signing and reception. And the security camera over at Lakeside Market’s got her on tape buying two cartons of eggs.”
“So? People do eat eggs, Jerry.”
“Yeah, but did you know that your professor friend’s birdhouse-camper thingamajig was egged last night?”
Yes, I did know, but thought it best not to admit it. “Really? Why would Amber want to egg Mason’s trailer?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” answered Jerry. “I’ve invited Amber down to the station to tell me.”
9
“Why would she lie?” I asked Kim later that evening as we sipped glasses of white wine in my apartment.
“You’ve got me,” Kim replied, sloshing her wine around. “Maybe Rose was covering for somebody.” She gulped and swallowed. “Maybe she’s nuts.”
I leaned forward and set my glass on the coffee table. I sat on the sofa, and Kim was in my dad’s favorite old chair. Mom and I had never been able to let the chair go. We never would. The way Kim was waving her glass around, Dad’s chair was likely to get a soaking.
“Who would she be covering for? Amber?” I asked.
“Who’s Amber again?”
“Rose’s daughter.”
Kim nodded sagely. “Bingo.”
“Jerry considers her his number-one suspect.” I explained how Amber had been caught on security camera videotape purchasing eggs at Lakeside Market sometime after Mason’s death. “And Mason’s trailer house had been heavily egged.”
“Two dozen eggs?” Kim chuckled. “Yeah, I’d call that heavy. Sorry. But it does sound rather childish.”
“I agree. But Amber is past the teenage stage. She must be twenty at least. Besides, throwing eggs at somebody’s place doesn’t sound like the act of someone who’s just committed murder.”
“Maybe,” Kim said.
I shook my head. “But why?”
“You mean why cover for Amber, or why would Amber want to murder your old college professor?”
“Both,” I answered with a frown. Kim held out the wine bottle, and I didn’t say no to a refill. It had been a long day. “I can see why Rose might want to cover for her daughter if she thought Amber had stabbed Mason.”
“It’s only natural, I suppose,” agreed Kim.
“What I don’t get,” I said, “is where was Mason the day before he was killed? Where did he go? Who did he see? He lied to me about having interviews and appointments arranged for the day. And he lied to me about having a dinner scheduled that evening with a newspaper editor from Charlotte.”
“Why did he lie to you about it?” asked Kim. “Do you think he had something to hide?”
I could only shrug. “I can’t think of any other good reason for the lies. Can you?”
Kim said she couldn’t.
“That still leaves one big question. If Amber really did kill Mason, why? Why would Amber want him dead?”
The room was silent as we each gave this some thought. Unfortunately, neither of us could come up with an answer, at least not one that made sense. When Kim suggested that perhaps Amber’s mind had been taken over by a superior alien race that was bent on collecting samples of ornithologist Earthlings, we called it a night.
* * *
The following morning after breakfast, I left Kim and Mom in charge of the store and stopped at the public library. I pinned down John Moytoy in the biography section.
“Good morning, Amy.” He slid a thick book about Lady Bird Johnson back on the shelf. “How are you? How’s business?”
“I’m good, and business is chugging—or should I say chirping?—right along. How was your trip to Asheville?” I rubbed my nostrils with the back of my finger. The dust rising from the shelves tickled my nose.
“Nice so far as library meetings go.” John is of the Cherokee tribe, and his family has lived in the Carolinas for generations. He was an old classmate of mine and seemed unchanging, ever cherubic in body and disposition. His hair remained jet-black, while several gray hairs had already crept into mine. Life could be so unfair. “We didn’t exactly turn Asheville on its head with our late-night revelry.”
“There’s always next year, John.” I motioned John to follow me to a study table by the window. “I hear that you were Rose Smith’s alibi in Mason Livingston’s murder.”
John nodded somberly. “That’s right. I’m so sorry.” He pulled off his glasses, wiped them on his sleeve, then returned them to his nose. “I know he was a friend of yours.”
“Thanks. I’m still trying to process Mason being gone. It seems so impossible.”
“I know, but Rose couldn’t have done it. Like I explained to Chief Kennedy, Rose and I were video chatting at the time it appears Professor Livingston was murdered. Heck, I could barely get a word in edgewise. She couldn’t have done it.”
“Why do you suppose she would say she did then?”
“I don’t have a clue. You wouldn’t catch me admitting to murdering somebody, especially when I hadn’t.”
“Would you mind telling me what the two of you were talking about, John? I didn’t even know you were friends.”
John shrugged and pulled up a chair. I joined him. “Sure, Rose and me go way back. It’s no secret what we were talking about, so I don’t see the harm. We were talking about Mason Livingston.”
“Oh?” Alarms went off in my head.
John smiled. “Relax, nothing nefarious. I knew I was going to be out of town for the book signing, and Rose knew how much I regretted that I couldn’t be there. I’m always eager to meet authors. We don’t get many of them passing through Ruby Lake. I made Rose promise to have him autograph a copy of his book for me and a second one for the library collection and to fill me in the minute the event was over.”
He shrugged. “And she did. Rose sounded so happy. She said the signing had been a huge success. They sold dozens of books, and the professor signed them all, including yours.” John paused in his thoughts. “Who could have imagined that it all would have ended so tragically afterward?”
I sighed heavily, drawing an angry stare from a nearby patron. I lowered my voice to a whisper. “How did you hear about the murder?”
John replied, “Jill Church told me.”
“The librarian?”
“Former librarian,” John said. “After she retired, she got a job working part time at Bookarama. She says once books get in your blood, you can never get them out.”
What John said about Jill Church made sense. I remembered Amber telling me that one of the part-timers used to work in a library.
“When she told me Professor Livingston was dead and that Rose Smith had done the deed, I rushed right back.” He scratched his head. “I mean, I couldn’t believe it. I had to tell the police what I knew.”
“What about Rose? Were you able to talk to her and ask her why she’d said such a thing?”
John shook his head. “I tried. Chief Kennedy told me she was refusing to see anyone, even a lawyer.”
I left John to his library duties and headed out to Rolling Acres, a senior living facility on the other end of Ruby Lake. I had made several friends at the retirement home since returning to town. Many attended my occasional bird-watching hikes. Some also showed up for our monthly Birds and Brews gatherings at Brewer’s Biergarten.
Birds & Bees had also started a Seeds for Seniors program. We supplied birdfeeders and seed to several senior facilities in the region, and I hoped to make it more. I had a bag of mixed seed in the back of the van. I parked in front of Karl Vogel’s bungalow, thankful that I didn’t need to go through the reception area of the main building. The woman in there had a dim view of me, and I wasn’t sure why.
I was about to ring the bell on Karl’s bungalow door when I heard him wheezing out on his deck. I left the bag of seed on the mat and went around to the patio.
“Hello, Karl. What are you doing?” I asked, looking over the gate.
Karl sat in a lounge chair in a T-shirt and baggy tan shorts. My other good friend at the center, Floyd Withers, snoozed in the chair beside him. A burp-like snore erupted from his nose.
“Hey, wake up, Floyd!” Karl kicked Floyd’s lounger. “We’ve got company.”
Floyd slowly opened his eyes. “Hi, Amy. Come on in.”
“Hello, Floyd.” I grinned as I pulled open the gate and let it shut lazily behind me. “Taking it easy, huh?”
Floyd rubbed his face. He had thinning white hair and a bushy moustache. “I was bird-watching,” he said. He pointed to a nearby oak. “There was a real nice grosbeak in that there tree just a little bit ago.”
Karl snorted. “Bird-watching!” He sipped from a can of beer he kept between his knees. “With your eyes closed?” The former chief of police had dazzling gray eyes behind thick, black-rimmed glasses and beneath a shock of white hair.
“You’ve still got your ears, haven’t you, Floyd?” Though he didn’t need it—he and Karl were tight—I couldn’t help coming to the old gentleman’s defense. “It is important that you use all of your senses when bird-watching, Karl. Not merely sight. Hearing, smell, touch . . .”
“Even taste?” quipped Karl. “Because I am feeling a mite peckish.”
I smiled. “Very funny, Karl.”
“Hey, I try.”
“Speaking of birds, I left a bag of seed by your front door.”
“Me and Floyd will take care of it,” said Karl. “The feeders are getting low.”
The former lawman rose and fetched me a can of beer from a small cooler next to the sliding glass door.
“Thanks.” I popped the tab and took a small sip. “Of course, the two of you have heard about Mason’s death.”
“Somebody practically scissored his head off,” Karl said, none too sensitively.
Floyd turned to Karl. “Didn’t you say the kid did it?”
“Kid?” I took a chair at the outdoor dining table. I closed my eyes, enjoying the warm sun on my face and the sweet scent of jasmine coming from the flower garden on the other side of the wall.
“Amber Smith,” Karl replied. “The bookstore lady’s daughter.”
I looked at Karl. “I heard Jerry wanted her to come down to the station, but is it official?”
Karl shrugged a bony shoulder. “She’s a suspect, if that’s what you mean. I don’t believe Jerry’s officially charged her with the crime yet.” Karl coughed. “But to hear Jerry tell it, she isn’t denying she did it. In fact, she dared him to prove it.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“It’s true,” replied Karl. “According to Jerry.”
I thought a moment. “You know, Jerry believes Amber egged Mason’s trailer the night of the murder. He says the market’s security camera shows her buying two cartons of eggs that very night.”
“I heard that,” replied Karl. “People do crazy things.”
“But does somebody who just murdered a man then go throw eggs at his trailer? What would be the point?”
“Could be they do. I’ve seen some wackos in my time.”
I was sure he had.
He chuckled. “We had a couple one time call nine-one-one to report their cat was holding them hostage.”
“Oh, come on,” said Floyd.
“It’s true,” replied Karl. “They said the cat was going crazy and they were scared for their lives.”
“What did you do?” I couldn’t help asking.
“What could I do? I was forced to drive out to the house. I pounded on the door, and when no one answered, I opened it. Darn cat flew out faster than greased lightning.”
“What did you do then?”
“I turned around and went home,” Karl said matter-of-factly.
“Have the police told you anything else, Karl?” As the former long-time police chief, he had a real in with Chief Kennedy. There were things Jerry would tell Karl that he wouldn’t dream of sharing with me.
Karl took a long pull of his beer and fetched another. “Anybody else need a refill?” Floyd and I declined. “I haven’t heard much else, but if I do, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.” I rested my head in my hands. “What do you know about Packard Mulligan, Karl?”
“The Mulligans?” Floyd said with surprise.
“You know them, Floyd?”
“Knew them,” he admitted. “Tyler Mulligan, Packard’s dad, once worked as a janitor at the bank.” Floyd was a retired banker. He’d worked for a spell in a branch of the local bank that had operated out of the space Birds & Bees now occupied. “Not a bad sort.”
“Really?” I replied. “Derek tells me the Mulligans have quite the reputation. And not a good one. In fact, he’s representing Pack now. Derek says he’s been accused of some local thefts.”
“Pish!” spat Karl. “Old man Mulligan was ornery to be sure. He drank too much, an
d he cussed too often. But I’d never known him to hurt a soul.”
“He’d never been arrested?”
“There were some complaints, but nothing was ever substantiated and Mulligan was never charged,” said the retired chief.
“Why all the rumors about him and the rest of the Mulligans then?”
“Because the Mulligans were different,” Karl said. “People don’t like people who are different. People get suspicious of such folks.”
Truer words had probably never been spoken.
“You know,” I began, “when I was a girl, we heard that Pack had murdered his father, embalmed him, and kept him on display in the parlor.”
Karl and Floyd howled with laughter.
“Okay, okay.” I slapped my knees. “I had that coming. I was a kid, what can I say?” It was time to change the subject. And I really needed to stop telling that story. “What about the Smiths?”
“What about them?” asked Karl.
“It seems unlikely and it sounds silly to even ask, but have Rose or Amber ever been in any trouble with the law that you know of?”
“Not while I was chief, and I don’t recall anything since then either.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“I’ve never heard a bad word about them,” put in Floyd.
“I hadn’t either,” I replied. “Not even a whisper. And yet bad is pretty much all townspeople are saying now, I’ll bet.”
“Too bad,” said Floyd. “The Smiths are nice people. The bank loaned Rose the money for Bookarama a dozen or more years ago. Her husband left her and Amber when Amber was just a babe. They’ve had it hard.”
“I can imagine. And things have gotten harder now with Mason’s murder in the bookstore.” I balled my hands into fists. “But I just can’t figure out why either of them would kill Mason or be covering up for whoever did.”
Karl leaned closer and tapped my knee. “Think about it, Amy. If you were Rose and thought your daughter killed him, wouldn’t you confess?”
I nodded. “I’d been thinking the same thing.”
“And if you were the daughter and thought your mother was guilty, wouldn’t you do the same?”
I nodded once more.
“You two are forgetting,” barked Floyd.