by J. R. Ripley
“What’s that?” demanded Karl.
“What if neither of them did it, but they each think that the other offed the guy?”
“What’s your point?” Karl pressed.
“My point is, you old goat,” Floyd turned to me, “who really killed Professor Livingston?”
10
Floyd was right. I had been such a fool. “That has to be it. Of course, Rose is covering for Amber, and Amber is covering for her mother. But the truth is neither of them killed Mason Livingston.” I couldn’t stop talking. “I mean, why would they? They wouldn’t, right?”
Kim nodded. Birds & Bees was closed for the day, and Kim had come up for supper in the apartment. Over chicken potpie, I’d filled her and Mom in on what I’d learned about Mason’s murder.
“So that means somebody else killed him.” I banged my fists against my thighs. “But who? Who, who, who?” I accompanied each “who” with a bang on my legs.
“It had to be somebody who was at the signing that night, right?” Mom called from the kitchen. She was mixing up another trial batch of her homemade suet. Having given up on the idea of making breakfast cookies, she was now determined to perfect the perfect suet cake.
“Well, you didn’t hear this from me,” Mom’s friend, Anita Brown, said. She’d come over after dinner to help my mother with the suet cake recipe. Anita, in addition to being a part-time dispatcher for the Town of Ruby Lake police and fire departments, was a whiz in the kitchen, particularly with pastries. Maybe she could work her wonders on bird suet cakes, too.
“Hear what?” I asked, turning my head her way.
“Well . . .” Anita hesitated.
“Spill it, girl,” ordered Kim.
Anita seemed to give it some thought. She dropped the wooden rolling pin she’d been using to crush peanuts on the counter and hurried over to the couch.
“This will only take a minute, Barb. Do you mind?”
“No,” Mom said. “I’ll pop this first batch in the oven.”
“Okay.” Anita waved her hand. “No more than three hundred degrees.”
“Got it,” replied Mom.
“Okay, now, like Kim said, spill.” I scooted over on the couch to make room for Anita.
“Well,” Anita said, pressing her knees together and clasping her hands in her lap. “You should ask Jerry about the toxicology report.”
“Toxicology report? Mason was stabbed with a pair of scissors. What’s with the toxicology report?”
“Standard procedure,” Anita answered.
“It seems odd to me that—”
“Never mind,” interrupted Kim. She was sitting on the floor with a glass of wine and waiting for her phone to ring. Dan Sutton had promised to call. “Tell us what was in this toxicology report, Anita.”
“Tsk-tsk.” Anita shook her head. “You know I’m not privy to such things, and even if I were—”
“Anita,” Kim said more sternly.
Anita shifted her position. “Okay, okay.” She made calm down motions with both hands. “But like I said before—”
“We know, we know, we didn’t hear it from you,” I said. “Right, Kim?”
Kim eagerly agreed.
“Well . . .” Anita looked around the room once more as if to check for unwanted listeners. Satisfied that there were none, she said, “Jerry says the lab report came back showing signs of something in Professor Livingston’s stomach called bisacodyl.”
“Bisacodyl?” Kim scratched the top of her head. “What the heck is that?”
“Some sort of laxative,” Anita replied. “A real strong laxative. I looked it up.”
“So your friend Mason had constipation,” Kim said. “What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that the police think it’s suspicious that he had such a large quantity in his stomach.” Anita arched her brow. “It’s very fast acting.”
“Even if Mason had constipation, why would he drink or eat this bisacodyl right before a book signing?” I asked. “Wouldn’t that be rather inconvenient?”
“Maybe he didn’t,” Mom offered from the kitchen.
“Exactly.” Anita stood and held her forefinger to her lips. “Mum’s the word, ladies.”
The telephone in the kitchen began ringing. “That’s the store line,” Mom said, stealing a glance as she pulled a tray of hot suet cakes from the oven. Thankfully, they smelled mostly like peanut butter rather than salmon, which was what her last recipe had reeked of. Believe me, there isn’t much that can upset the stomach more than a salmon-flavored breakfast cookie.
“That’s okay.” I stood. “You’re busy. I’ll get it.”
“The store’s closed,” whined Kim. “Let it ring.”
I shrugged and picked it up anyway. “Hello, Birds and Bees. How can I help you?”
Kim rolled her eyes at me. I ignored her.
“Is this Amy Simms?”
“Yes, but I’m afraid the store is closed now. We’re open tomorrow from nine in the morning until eight in the evening. If you’d like to come by first thing—”
The man on the other end cut me off. “This is Herman Kotter.”
“Do I know you, Mister Kotter?”
“Sort of. My wife and I are staying out at the Ruby Lake Park and Marina. We talked.”
“We talked? You mean you and I spoke?”
“That’s right. You were telling us about that friend of yours, the guy with the big birdhouse who was murdered. Say, we read about that in the papers. That was some nasty business.”
“Yes, it was.” I was beginning to wonder what Herman Kotter was doing phoning me up at ten at night. “I remember now. You were in the motorhome in the next space.”
“That’s us. I wanted to get a spot nearer to the lake. I mean, we have no water view at all. All we can see out our windows is more motorhomes.” He paused. “And tents. Lots of tents. The wife and I like camping, but we have never been into living in a tent. I did enough of that in the Army. Back then, we had to squeeze—”
“Was there something I could do for you, Mister Kotter?”
I could hear whispering in the background.
“Shush,” said Mr. Kotter.
“What’s that?” I said. I pressed my ear against the receiver.
“Not talking to you. I was talking to the wife.” His voice dropped as he said, “I’m getting to that, dear. I’m getting to that.”
I waited.
“Anyway . . .” He sounded rather annoyed now.
“Yes?”
“You asked if we’d seen anybody hanging around the guy’s birdhouse. . .”
“And did you?”
“We sure did. You see, the wife was looking out the window. She was washing the plates and cups in the sink. I tell her she ought to use paper. Saves water.”
“But wastes paper!” I heard her muffled retort in the background.
“Anyway, there’s a little window over the sink in the motorhome so she can look out while she’s washing.” He cleared his throat. “In this case, outside toward this guy’s birdhouse. It’s quite a sight, I can tell you—”
“Who did you see, Mister Kotter?” I cut him off, figuring if I didn’t now, we might be up all night.
“Who knows? Some lady.”
“Some lady? Can you describe her? Was she tall? Short?”
“She was just some lady,” he replied. “But since you were asking, the wife thought you might want to know that she was in there. I mean, seeing as how you and the dead guy were friends.”
“Wait,” I said. “Are you telling me she’s there now? In Mason’s camper?”
“Sure,” Mr. Kotter answered. “At least she was a few minutes ago. I told the wife to keep an eye on the place, but you know how she is. She always thinks she knows better, and then she—”
“Mister Kotter,” I interrupted once more, “thank you for calling me. I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably another friend of the professor’s.”
Mr. Kotter chuckled. “Sure, sur
e. Seems like the man had a lot of friends. A lot of female friends, if you don’t mind my saying.”
In the background, I heard his wife say, “Hang up the phone now, Herman. You’ll talk the woman’s ear off.”
“Well, I’ve got to go, Ms. Simms. We’ll be leaving town tomorrow. Too much excitement here for us. We’ll be heading for Pigeon Forge. Bye, now.”
“Bon voyage,” I replied. I set the phone back in its cradle.
“What was that all about?” asked Mom.
“The man in the motorhome next to Mason’s trailer called to tell me there’s a woman inside.”
“Inside the professor’s birdhouse?” Kim shifted in my direction.
“You should call the police.” That was Anita.
“Maybe,” I replied. “But what for? It isn’t exactly illegal for someone to be inside Mason’s camper.” If it were, I was in trouble. “The police haven’t declared it off limits, have they?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” admitted Anita.
I grabbed my purse. “I think I’ll run over and take a look.”
“Want me to come with you?” Kim climbed to her feet and dusted off her rear end.
“No, you stay here. If we both go, it might make whoever it is feel like we’re trying to gang up on her. Besides,” I said, slipping my feet into a pair of sandals by the door, “now that you’re dating Dan, I wouldn’t want you snitching to him about any of my, shall we say, less than one hundred percent legal activities.”
“I agree with the ganging up thing,” Kim conceded, flopping down on the couch and punching a pillow. “But I would never snitch.”
“You’re dating Dan, our Dan?” Anita said as she dumped a couple of cups of raisins into a bowl in preparation for another batch of suet cakes.
“One of Ruby Lake’s finest,” I said with a smile as I exited the apartment, knowing that I’d left Kim to one of the town’s leading gossip hounds.
It was a brisk ten-minute walk to the campgrounds. Even in the twilight, Mason’s trailer stood out like a sore thumb or, in this case, a giant red birdhouse.
I waved to Mr. and Mrs. Kotter, who were watching from their window. The door to Mason’s trailer was closed. I put my ear to it and heard nothing. Placing my hand quietly on the handle, I pulled the door open.
Cara Siskin sat on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, arms pressed against the mattress.
“Ms. Siskin?”
She looked up, adjusting her eyeglasses as she did so. “What are you doing here?”
There was no point in lying. “One of the campers reported seeing someone in Mason’s trailer.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know,” I lied. I didn’t want Ms. Siskin causing the Kot-ters any trouble. They’d be on their way tomorrow anyway. “I got an anonymous call.”
“Good grief.” The woman leapt from the bed and smoothed her violet pencil skirt. “This town is full of snoops.” She looked out the window. “Snoops and creeps. Greedy little creeps.”
I shifted uncomfortably. I had a feeling she was including me—in the first category at the very least. “Were you looking for something special?” The place was a mess, but it had looked like that from the very first time I entered.
“Nothing in particular. Mason was more than a client—he was a friend. I thought I would take a stab at going through his personal effects, get things organized.”
“Had you known Mason for a long time?”
“We met a couple of years ago when Mason came to the publisher with the idea for the hummingbird book.” She pouted. “Poor man. If he’d known that it was going to lead to his death, I’m certain he never would have written it.” She pulled a bottle of rum from a cabinet above the small built-in fridge.
“You seem to know your way around the place.”
She gave a little shrug and tipped a plastic cup from a sleeve on the table. “I ought to. I’ve been in and out of here enough.”
“But you’re not sleeping here?”
She smiled. “Define sleeping.”
“Mason told me you were staying at a motel. The Ruby Lake Motor Inn?”
“That’s the one. It’s not much, but it beats this place.” She extended the sleeve of cups my way. “Are you in or are you out?”
“Out.”
“Your loss.” She shrugged once more and filled her cup.
“You don’t really think writing a book about hummingbirds got Mason killed, do you?”
The publicist riffled through a stack of correspondence on the corner of the table. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” She set down the papers and picked up the professor’s notated copy of Hummingbirds and Their Habits. “If he hadn’t written this book, he wouldn’t have come to your town, and he wouldn’t be dead.” She slammed the book shut.
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted him dead?”
Cara Siskin paced to the end of the tiny trailer and back. “What kind of a stupid question is that? The woman from Bookarama already admitted to killing him.” She gave her head a shake.
“Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Rose Smith is innocent.”
Siskin appeared dubious.
“It’s true. She has an alibi.”
“You don’t say.” She tapped the side of her chin. “Do the police have any other suspects?”
“The daughter,” I answered. “But I don’t think she did it.”
Siskin grinned. “You think she’s innocent?” She pulled a face. “Well, so do I.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because my money’s on Frank Duvall.” She poured herself a second very generous glass of rum.
“The flower farmer? Why would he want to see Mason dead?” I wasn’t about to tip my hand and admit that I knew about Mason’s correspondence with the grower. It would only lead to questions. The publicist would want to know not only what I knew but how.
“Duvall was trying to get Mason interested in some scheme of his. He claimed to have developed some hybrid flower that was especially attractive to all species of hummingbirds. A real magnet, so he said. As if there really was such a thing.”
“Mason didn’t believe it?”
“Truth?” I nodded, and she continued. “I think Mason wanted to believe it. Personally, I think it’s about as real as leprechauns.”
“What exactly did he want from Mason?”
She pressed her fingers into the fold of her skirt. “He was begging Mason to endorse the flower. Mason said Duvall offered to make him a full partner if he did.
“Duvall had some grandiose idea that it would make the two of them rich. I can’t imagine there could be that much money in some stupid flower.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “The flower industry is huge, so is birding. A flower like that might be worth millions of dollars.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t look like she believed it. “In any case, Mason is dead.”
“And you think Frank murdered him? Why? As you say, he wanted Mason’s endorsement and help marketing his flower. Mason dead wouldn’t do him much good. In fact, it might have squashed his plans.” At the very least, it would be a big setback.
“So maybe they had a falling out? Argued. Mason told me Frank was greedy. Maybe he got too greedy.”
“Maybe.”
She arched her brow. “You don’t believe it?”
“I don’t know what to believe.” I ran my fingers down the sleeves of one of the professor’s tweed sport coats hanging from a hook near the door. “I do find it hard to believe that Mason would have gotten himself in some scheme simply for money. He was a tenured professor in addition to being a published author and speaker. His wife’s a professor, too. How’s she taking Mason’s death? Have you spoken with her?”
Cara Siskin’s laughter filled the tiny space. “I expect she’s dancing on his grave.”
“Excuse me?” I was aghast at the woman’s lack of compassion.
“Didn’t y
ou know?” I shook my head, and the publicist continued. “Mason and his wife split a couple of years ago. The divorce has turned quite nasty.”
“Mason told me they had been separated, but he seemed to imply it was only a trial separation.”
“According to his wife, living with Mason was a trial unto itself.” The publicist grinned wickedly. “And the divorce has been proving expensive. In more ways than one.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean it was driving Mason to distraction. He went a year over his deadline getting this latest book done. My editor was not happy and refused to advance him any more money until he turned in the manuscript.”
“Mason was having money problems?”
“Why do you think he was living in this dump?”
“Living? Do you mean to tell me that Mason was living in this trailer full time?”
“Yep. This is it.” She spread her arms. “Home, sweet home. Your dear professor was dead broke. And now he’s dead period.” She chuckled. Clearly the rum was beginning to influence her movement and words. “Mason was in deep guano. Lost his wife, his job. Everything but this silly birdhouse on wheels and a truck with three years of payments left.”
“Did you notice anything suspicious that night at Bookarama? Did you notice anyone hanging around who shouldn’t have been there?”
“The police already asked me, and I told them what I’m telling you—not a thing.” Cara drank. “I didn’t see or hear anything unusual, and I didn’t see a murderer lurking in the shadows with a pair of scissors in hand.”
“What time did you leave the bookstore?”
“A few minutes after the book signing.”
“You didn’t stay for the reception? Isn’t that unusual? You are, were, Mason’s publicist.”
“I had a headache, so I left early. You were his friend. You left early, too. Should I accuse you of murdering him?”
“I wasn’t suggesting you killed him, Ms. Siskin. I only want to find the truth.”
“The truth can be overrated.”
“That’s an odd thing to say.”
“This is an odd little town,” she replied, her expression sour.
On a hunch, I opened my purse and extracted the makeup kit I’d found in Mason’s trailer. “Is this yours?” Light from the small lamp beside the bed reflected off the kit.