“I told you I hate having my Del work there. Whoever killed John Hardy was right in the building before Del arrived. People saw Liz Hardy’s car behind the building about the time of the murder. It’s a wonder Del didn’t walk right in on it. Liz Hardy has no idea what dealing with me would be like.” She crossed both her arms in a final sign of finishing the job if Del were to become a third victim.
“To tell you the truth, Lettie, I’m beginning to wonder what’s true and what isn’t.”
Lettie looked at Grace’s face, worn out from not sleeping the night before, and her eyes narrowed. “What is going on with you, Grace? You usually come home in a chipper mood when you’re at the school. What’s happened today?”
“I’m feeling a bit down, that’s all.”
Immediately, Lettie pulled out a kitchen chair, plopped Grace on it, and went around the table to sit across from her. “Does this have something to do with Jeff Maitlin? What is this about work stopping at his humongous mansion? I talked to Mildred, who heard it from Charlie Sims, who was talking to Camilla Sites, who got it at The Depot from one of Todd Janicke’s workers. Did Jeff run out of credit at the bank?”
Grace looked at her sister-in-law, her lower lip beginning to quiver. Then she got ahold of herself. “I got a message on my answering machine. Jeff isn’t coming back.”
“What? What do you mean?” Her mouth twisted and her eyes narrowed.
“He’s not coming back.”
“I knew it! That scoundrel.” She waved her arms, stood up, and walked around the table. “He’s a no-good, crummy, black-hearted, miserable son of a gun. He can’t do this. How can he do this to you?”
“I don’t know, Lettie. I thought we had something special going.”
She turned to Grace and sputtered in disbelief. “He—he left a message on your answering machine? The dirty coward. Only one step higher than sending you one of those text-y things. Wait till I get my hands on him. He’d better not show his face back here again. My iron skillet isn’t good enough for the likes of him. I might have to get out my turkey roaster.”
This made Grace laugh through her tears. “Oh, Lettie. Maybe it’s for the best.”
“ ‘For the best?’ No. You don’t deserve this kind of treatment, Grace Kimball. For once in your life, I thought you’d found someone who was at least close to the equal of our Roger. Then he goes and does this. If he comes around, Endurance is likely to have a third murder…I’d get off with any jury in this town. Justifiable homicide.”
Grace laughed again despite her misery. “Oh, Lettie. I didn’t realize you even liked him enough to be so angry.”
“Who says I liked him? I just thought he was perfect for you.”
Grace looked at her sister-in-law’s indignant face. “It will be all right. I’ll manage to get through this.”
“Humph. It’s a good thing I made you a chocolate cake. Figure maybe TJ will show up and help you eat it.”
“What would I do without you to cheer me up, Lettie?” She considered briefly. “Probably gain less weight.”
“Dinner’s on the stove. Cake is on the counter. I’ll be back in the morning. Don’t do anything drastic for love, please.”
“I’m fine, Lettie.”
Lettie left her there with the fragrance from a pork roast sitting on top of the stove and a pot of broccoli waiting to be eaten. Grace didn’t have much of an appetite, but she decided she’d change clothes and eat while she watched the evening news. Passing the bulletin board by the kitchen phone, she glanced at the calendar tacked up next to various notes.
Suddenly it hit her. February 14th is coming up. Great timing, Jeff.
Chapter Seventeen
Grace was finishing her coffee and cereal on Saturday morning when Lettie arrived, laden with sacks of groceries. Saturdays were a good time to sleep in, sit in the kitchen in her bathrobe drinking coffee, reading the newspaper, and considering what to do about Jeff Maitlin. The first three she had covered. Grace closed the Endurance Register she’d been reading and looked up at her sister-in-law.
“What’s the good news, Lettie?”
“Good news? You want good news, go join a corporation—or better yet, a drug company—then make millions from the rest of us suckers. No, make it billions.”
“Oh. I see. We’re going to have that kind of day.” Grace took a long sip of coffee.
Lettie pulled off her coat, hung it in the closet, and came back to the kitchen, eyeing the groceries that needed to be put away. She began opening cupboards and the refrigerator, sending food efficiently to storage as she talked to Grace. “Two murders in town. No solutions yet. My legion doesn’t have much information, because it seems like everyone is keeping his mouth shut.” Grace was aware Lettie’s legion was a loosely formed group of contacts who kept their eyes and ears peeled for what was going on around town. Usually they heard details before TJ Sweeney did.
“What have they heard?” asked Grace, as she unwrapped the paper from another oat bran muffin.
Lettie stood over the kitchen table so she could use her finger to tap on the table, emphasizing her points. “Mildred at The Bread Box Bakery heard Marilyn Atkins’s fingerprints were all over John Hardy’s office. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’d—well, that’s a story for another day.”
Grace frowned at Lettie. “I’d hate to think Marilyn would be involved in murders. I’ve known her for fifteen years, Lettie. She just isn’t the type.”
“According to you, Grace, no one’s the type. But I have my theory.”
“A theory? Have you shared it with TJ or Jake Williams?”
“Not yet.” Lettie looked off into the back yard, distracted by a squirrel getting into the bird feeder. “I’m gonna get that sucker. I’m so tired of him taking the bird feed. A pellet gun. That would do it. One shot right in the—”
“Theory?”
“Theory? Oh, yeah.” Lettie looked at the bananas in her hand for a moment, and then remembered what she had been saying. “Both of those women—Hardy’s wife and mistress—were at the high school Sunday.” She leaned over, lowering her voice for some reason. “I heard they were there during the prime time when the murder happened. Maybe it was both. Couldn’t you see that, Grace? The betrayed wife plus the home-wrecker mistress, teaming up to kill the philandering husband.”
Grace shook her head slightly. “Lettie, you read too many tabloids. This is little Endurance. We don’t have that kind of drama here.”
“We don’t? Two more murders? What would you call that?”
“An unfortunate coincidence. What else has your local jungle telegraph heard?”
“A red lampshade with red feathers. Heard that from Gladys at the coffee shop. It was in Hardy’s office, dangling from his foot. A red light bulb was in it, as if someone was sending a message about straying from your spouse.”
Grace started laughing, almost choking on her muffin. Lettie glared at her.
“Lettie, you are so far off on the details this time.”
“How do you know? Did TJ talk?”
“Occasionally, I hear a little from her, but no red lampshade, no red light, no foot, and no teaming up by two women. You have to stop listening to all this garbage.”
“Garbage? Usually I’m way ahead of Sweeney, but this time people are keeping their lips zipped. I don’t quite understand it.”
Grace simply shook her head.
“Oh, I also heard the toxicology report showed he had been poisoned by arsenic, just like the title of the play Looney Tunes is putting on next weekend at the high school.”
“Don’t think so. I know for a fact the tox report is not back yet.” But I won’t mention it’s probably coming later this week, Grace thought. She decided to move Lettie away from that topic. “Speaking of Ellen Terry, I plan to do a little checking up on her at the newspaper today. I think a bit of research is called for. I’m doing a feature article on the play.”
“Hmm,” said Lettie, and she pulled out a cookbook, opening it to the index
. Moving her finger down the page, she said, “Ah ha!” and thumbed through pages to find a recipe. Then she looked up at Grace saying, “I think something is not quite right about that woman.”
“You think?”
“I think. Del says her room at the high school is always total chaos. I thought teachers had to be organized. All of mine were.”
“How long ago has it been?”
“It wasn’t a one-room schoolhouse. That play woman isn’t like other teachers, Del says. He’ll be so glad when the weekend is over. He finds it almost impossible to clean around the stage area or in her room. Stuff everywhere.”
“Maybe being organized isn’t her style.”
“I’ll say it’s not.”
“I’m curious about her too, so when I find something out, I’ll let you know. Right now, I’m headed upstairs to get dressed and go down to work at the newspaper.”
“How about beef stroganoff for dinner tonight?”
“Sounds lovely,” said Grace as she went upstairs.
Grace spent most of the afternoon at the Register office, but each time she thought she would look up information on Ellen Terry, someone came in, asked her a question, needed something, or just wanted to talk. Bucky Carmical stopped in to place a want ad for his mom just as Grace was taking some papers to the social page desk. She had to grin and greet him because he’d been one of her favorite students. Two years ago, he’d organized an alarm clock brigade: ten students hid alarm clocks around the building, set to go off at various times. Sure kept the assistant principal busy tracking them all down. She chuckled as she walked back to her office. By the time she glanced at the clock, it was already five.
“Oh, bother,” she said. The thought of beef stroganoff settled into her brain, and she thought she would go home, eat dinner, and come back in the evening. No one would be in the office so she could work undisturbed.
Once home, she decided her house was unusually warm and cozy for a February night. Maybe she wouldn’t go back to work this evening. Then she remembered the play was the following weekend, and she really needed to get a bit of background on Ellen Terry. Besides, she was curious about the unusual woman. So, after arguing with herself, work won out.
At the office, a light at the front of the building in the public lounge was on, left on during the night hours. Also, a flood light covered the sidewalk at the main door, but the deserted parking lot had only a couple of lights on tall poles. After some of the events which had happened recently, Grace felt a little unsettled about being in the building alone, but then she decided that was silly. The front door was locked, as it should be, and she locked it carefully behind her. As she walked through the building, she turned on lights so she wouldn’t be anxious.
She unlocked her own office, hit the power button on her computer, and took off her coat and winter things. Then she settled in for something she loved to do: research. She found it exciting to start on a new project, because research on the Internet was intriguing. One idea led to another, which led to another, and so on. As she brought up her browser, she thought about what Bob Godina had said about teachers as professionals. A love of learning, as well as intellectual curiosity, were musts for teachers. How could a person inspire students to learn if she didn’t love to find out about ideas herself?
Let’s see, she thought. Nebraska. Small schools. Private schools. How many could you find in small towns in Nebraska? She found fifteen using a filtering program, and once she began to settle in on those, she looked for the names of faculty from 2011. The first seven schools were dead ends. The eighth one was Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows, a Catholic school in Millage, Nebraska. What a depressing name for a school. The town had seven thousand people, a public high school, and this private school.
And then, there she was—Ellen Terry was listed as a drama teacher, English teacher, and play director. Grace was about to look for a photo when she heard a noise. She paused and listened, her head cocked to the side. Nothing. She licked her dry lips, took a swallow of bottled water, and looked up several times at the window of her office door.
Now, where were we, she thought. Oh, yes. No photo. Ellen Terry had been there for two years as a full-time teacher. English, drama, play directing. A newspaper article about the school board meeting listed her as resigning in the late summer of 2011, and the board replaced her the following month. Hmm. I wonder why she would leave a full-time job at a private school for a part-time job at a public school in a small town in Illinois. Obviously, she likes small towns, but why leave a full-time job?
Again, Grace thought she heard a noise. Maybe it was just the furnace kicking on. She left her desk and stuck her head out the office door. She couldn’t see anyone or anything moving in the hallway or the visible part of the main lounge. All the lights were on. She walked out quietly, her nerves on full alert. No one in the lounge and Jeff Maitlin’s office door was closed. Walking over to the front door, she checked it to make sure it was locked. It was. My nerves, said Grace to herself. Frowning, she crept back to her office.
She continued to look through the newspapers for the little Nebraska town, theorizing the school plays would probably be in the fall and the spring. April was always a good month for a play. She began looking through the archived newspapers for the month of April, concentrating on the days leading up to each weekend. Then she found it. In April 2011, the spring before she came here, Ellen Terry had put on Arsenic and Old Lace at her former school. The newspaper carried a picture of the student cast, including their names. A brief summary of the plot—enough to interest people—followed. Grace gazed at the photos of the students in their costumes. The girl who played Abby Brewster looked nothing like Ginger. The whole cast appeared excited, much like Grace remembered the faces of her own high school students.
She sat in her chair looking at the computer screen thoughtfully. Why would Ellen Terry repeat a play she’d just done the spring before she came to Endurance? Obviously, she must have chosen it again because she was familiar with it, and she would not have as much work to do since she’d know the play, the blocking, and the characters. That made sense. After all, it had been years since the play had been put on in Endurance. No one would know she had directed it recently at another school. Clever woman.
She scrolled through several more newspapers, thinking she might find a review of the play, but nothing. She was just about to look at the fall newspapers to see if Terry had put on an earlier play when she thought she heard the front door open. This is silly, she said to herself. I’m simply on edge because of the murders. But no, she was sure she heard the door close, latching with a click.
Her heart pounded and her shoulders tensed as she reached for her purse to find her cell phone so she could call 9-1-1 if she needed to. Who would be coming in at this time of night? The next paper didn’t come out until Monday, so no one would be in on a Saturday night. Thinking about a weapon, she looked around, but the closest thing she had was a heavy dictionary. Right, like that would help, she thought. Slowly, she rose from her chair, praying its familiar squeak wouldn’t happen this time. It didn’t.
Creeping softly to her door, she touched the handle, pulling it open far enough to go through the space between the door and the doorframe. Holding her breath, she made sure she moved the door carefully because it sometimes squeaked too. With excruciating nerves, Grace stuck her head out, inches at a time, straining to look down the hallway. She didn’t see anyone. But she could hear something. She couldn’t identify the noise. It was soft, furtive, like someone searching for something.
What should she do? She thought. Can’t call 9-1-1 or whoever it is will hear me. Turn out my office lights and hide? Maybe he won’t come down the hallway. No, it wouldn’t work because he would see her light go off through her office door’s window since that light reflected into the hallway. Nothing for it. She needed to check out the noise.
She took a deep swallow, put her hand on the doorframe, and tentatively stuck one trembling foot
into the hall. Nothing unusual happened. No gunshots down the hall, no shouts of “Who is it?”
She pulled her whole body out into the hallway but plastered herself up against the wall. Inching her way down the wall, she tried to stay as flat as she could. If someone was out there, at least she had the element of surprise, and it was darker in the hallway once she left her office door. Maybe she could make it to the front door and run out before they caught her. Just a few more inches and she could see beyond the hallway, out into the main room of the front office, the place where people came in to see Rick Enslow, who managed the ads…Rick, who was not here tonight when she needed him.
Another inch or two. She leaned forward slightly with her head so she could see into the office. A man stood at the counter with his back to her, looking at some pieces of paper. Suddenly, Grace got her nerve back, feeling the anger rise through her back to her shoulders and neck. She stood up straight, moved forward, and demanded in the strongest voice she could find, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Whoever it was put his hands up in the air and turned slowly around. She braced herself and punched in 9-1-1, but didn’t actually send it. One punch on “send” and it would go flying off to the dispatcher and then to TJ. Glancing between her phone and the stranger, she watched him turn the rest of the way around to face her.
Jeff Maitlin.
For a moment her whole body froze. Then she dropped her phone, raced across the remaining space, and folded him into her arms.
Chapter Eighteen
Jeff sat back against the sofa cushions, his eyes closed momentarily. Then he felt Grace’s concern. “I saw your car in the parking lot and was afraid if I just walked in, slamming the door, it would scare you. I was trying to be quiet.”
They had both driven to her house and were sitting on her living room sofa, a bottle of wine open, glasses poured, and a fire providing warmth against the cold and darkness outside. She searched every inch of his face: the drawn look, the dark circles, the sadness about his eyes and mouth, the two-day stubble on his chin. He stared into the fire while she breathed in his scent, sitting in silence, waiting for him to speak.
Death Takes No Bribes: An Endurance Mystery (Endurance Mysteries Book 3) Page 14