Some Enchanted Murder

by Linda S. Reilly

  My good lady. Who was this Santa Claus in denim? He talked like a character out of an old movie.

  I sneaked a peek at his flannel-trimmed blue shirt. Stitched on one pocket, in flowing red script, were the words Darby Repairs and Renovations.

  Darby.

  The name was vaguely familiar. Unfortunately, I couldn’t curl my brain around it long enough to remember where I’d heard it.

  “Apple!” I felt a hard finger tap on my shoulder. “It’s snowing poodles and purses out there. Maybe we’d better get going.” Aunt Tressa looked stressed, and not very happy.

  “Everything okay?”

  “I guess so. I stopped by to talk to Lou, but he seemed distracted. Something was bugging him, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was.”

  “Strange.”

  “Yeah. He gave me something, too. Something he wanted me to give to you.” She unzipped the battleship that was her handbag, thrust in a hand, and began mining its depths. After at least a full minute she said, “Must’ve fallen to the bottom. I’ll find it later.” She pulled out her ruby-red cell phone and did a quick check for messages, her scowl proclaiming she had none.

  “What was it?”

  “What was what?”

  “The thing Lou gave you. The thing you were supposed to give to me.”

  “Oh.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It looked like some sort of greeting card. Remind me to look for it when we get home. By the way, Paul Fenton’s hanging around here somewhere. I ducked out of sight when I saw him. I know he’s going to give me grief about my inspection.”

  Aunt Tressa was seriously into the ten-day grace period for her car inspection, which technically should have been done by November thirtieth. Today was December seventh. Paul Fenton, the chief of police, had been dogging her about it since Thursday.

  It didn’t help, of course, that Aunt Tressa had rejected his invitation to the policemen’s ball this past summer. “He’s not my type,” she’d quipped. “I don’t like a man who swaggers, and Paul Fenton has more swagger than a frat boy after a panty raid.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Darby staring at Aunt Tressa. Truly, seriously gawking, as if his eyelids were propped up with telephone poles.

  “Can I help you with something, Mr.”—my aunt glared at his shirt pocket—“Darby?”

  Darby swallowed. “Yes, ma’am, I mean, no ma’am.” His smallish ears flushed pink, and he gave a slight bow. “Jack Darby, at your service.” He slid two thick fingers into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out a business card, and handed it to Aunt Tressa. “You ever need any work done, you call me, any time. My cell number’s there, too, in case you ever have an emergency. No repair is too small for Jack Darby. I can do plumbing, electrical, you name it.”

  A jack-of-all-trades, I was tempted to blurt. His whole spiel sounded a little too pat.

  Aunt Tressa accepted his card, but the suspicion in her eyes didn’t waver. “Thanks. I’ll keep you in mind.” She turned to me. “Come on, we’d better head home.” She gripped my arm and began shuttling me out of the library, toward the foyer. The crowd had thinned. Only about a dozen people still milled about on the first floor.

  “Nice meeting you ladies,” Darby called after us.

  I turned to nod a cordial good-bye, but he’d already disappeared.

  “Who was he?” my aunt hissed.

  “I have no idea, but his name definitely rings a bell. By the way, Lillian Bilodeau is here. I offered her a ride home.”

  “I saw Lillian. She was coming out of Lou’s office when I was walking in.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought you were headed in to see Lou fifteen minutes ago? Lillian only went upstairs a short while ago.”

  “I stopped to use the bathroom first. After which I decided to spruce up my makeup. After which I decided to fluff up my hair. When I got to the study, Lillian was just leaving.”

  Her name had no sooner been spoken when I spotted her. Her eyes distant and dreamlike, Lillian walked slowly toward us from the foot of the staircase. The china cat dangled precariously from her fingers. I gently removed it from her grasp. “Here, let me hold that for you.”

  “Are we leaving now?” she murmured, looking off at a distant spot on the wall behind me.

  “Yes, but are you all right? You’re very pale.”

  When she finally looked me in the eye, I saw that her lips were trembling. “I’m … fine. Getting very tired, I’m afraid.”

  “We’re leaving right now, Lillian,” Aunt Tressa soothed, slipping her arm through the older woman’s. My aunt had always had a warm spot in her heart for this kind soul who could never turn away a stray cat. “Besides, this place feels like a pizza oven on Venus. I keep getting hot flashes.”

  I took Lillian’s other arm. We had almost reached the front door when a scream ripped through the mansion.

  Aunt Tressa gave me a smug look. “I knew that tarantula would cause trouble. Who in their right mind would let a—”

  “He’s dead!” a voice shouted from the top of the stairs.

  Everyone turned to see Josh Baker galumphing down the staircase. “He’s dead,” Josh repeated, his shoulders heaving, his eyes shiny with fear.

  “Hah!” Aunt Tressa stage-whispered to me. “Someone finally nailed the sucker. Probably squirted it with a can of bug spray.”

  “Josh, are you talking about Zorba?” I asked.

  He threw me a dazed look. “Zorba? No, not Zorba. Lou Marshall! Someone stabbed him in the neck with one of those antique knives!”

  My aunt’s jaw fell open. “Lou? Dead?” She tottered sideways. “Then I”—she swallowed—“was probably the last person to see him alive.”

  I grabbed her arm to keep her upright, at the precise moment I spotted Chief Fenton striding toward us. “Is that so?” he said, his granite gaze locked firmly on Aunt Tressa’s horrified face.

  “What I meant was,” she squeaked, “I … was probably the next to last person to see him alive.”

  But Fenton was already charging up the stairs, his large feet thumping them back two at a time.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I had just come out of the boardroom and was striding across the bank lobby when I saw her. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, twenty-one at most. Her hair was the color of summer sunshine, pulled away from her face and held fast on either side by a pair of pale pink bows. She had full lips and bright blue eyes that I could see even from several feet away. She caught my gaze and quickly looked away, a flush painting her lovely cheeks the same shade as her hair bows …

  By the time Chief Fenton finished questioning Lillian, Aunt Tressa, and me and allowed us to leave, it was dark outside. Tiny flakes clung to my chestnut-colored hair and continued drifting down at a steady pace. The air felt crisp and invigorating with the scent of the season’s first snowfall.

  Or it would have, if I hadn’t just come from a murder scene.

  Parked on the street in front of the mansion, my silver Honda Fit was covered with a thick blanket of snow. Still boiling at Chief Fenton’s insinuation that she’d had something to do with Lou’s murder, Aunt Tressa shoved herself into the back seat. I took Lillian’s tiny arm, guided her onto the front seat, and then placed the china cat in her hands. With an absent look, she slipped it into her coat pocket.

  I started the car and flipped the heat on high, then grabbed my windshield brush out of my trunk and cleaned off the car as quickly as I could. My jacket and gloves felt cold and wet when I finally slid onto the driver’s seat. Dry heat blasted out of the vents, warming my bones a little.

  I was worried about both of my passengers. Aunt Tressa had been thoroughly shaken by Lou’s murder. After the initial shock had worn off, she’d snatched a wad of tissues out of her purse and sobbed for a good five minutes. Then Fenton had pulled her aside and escorted her into the library, closing the door. I don’t know what he said to her, but when she stalked out of the room t
wenty minutes later, I’d swear I saw steam billowing from her ears.

  As for Lillian, she’d been far too quiet during the ordeal. Fenton had questioned her, too, but only briefly. According to Lillian, she’d gone upstairs and into Lou’s temporary office to pay for the china cat. After he agreed she could have it for ten dollars, she’d given him a ten-dollar bill, thanked him, and left.

  But there was something she wasn’t telling us. Of that I felt certain.

  Fenton had interrogated me too, but his questions were mostly about Aunt Tressa. Had she fought with Lou recently? Were they having problems? Was Aunt Tressa the jealous type?

  I answered no to all, but I didn’t want him to think I was being defensive, either. I responded to each question as calmly as I could, my heart thumping like a frightened rabbit’s the entire time.

  Aunt Tressa leaned forward and poked my shoulder. “Look.” She aimed a red-gloved finger at a car parked on the street about thirty feet in front of mine. “Isn’t that your boss?”

  I squinted into the darkness, through the falling snow. Sure enough, Sam Ingle, the attorney I worked for at Quinto and Ingle, was brushing snow off his Buick with a long-handled scraper.

  “That’s odd,” I said. “I don’t remember seeing him at the estate sale.” He’d told me, in fact, that he didn’t plan to attend, since his wife thoroughly disliked “moldy antiques.”

  Traffic was light as I pulled out onto the icy road. I waved at Sam as we inched past him, but he didn’t notice. At least he didn’t appear to.

  “I’m so sorry to make you drive out to the trailer park in this weather, Apple,” Lillian fretted. She twisted her gloved hands nervously in her lap.

  “Don’t give it a thought, Lillian. I’m glad to do it.”

  I kept my eyes focused on the slick road, my speed rarely exceeding twenty-five. We passed through Hazleton’s small town center, where the one-armed statue of Ezekiel Hazleton, the town’s founder, was coated with snow.

  Within minutes I was turning onto the narrow drive that led into the Whistle Stop Mobile Home Park. A plow had made a cursory sweep through the park, leaving a narrow ribbon of packed snow that was barely the width of my car. I was grateful that Lillian’s small white dwelling was only a short distance ahead on the right.

  My Honda skidded slightly as I braked to a stop in front of Lillian’s mobile home. I shoved the gearshift into Park and hopped out of the car. I didn’t want Lillian navigating the slippery walkway and stairs on her own.

  I heard another door open and close. Aunt Tressa’s. Wordlessly, she took hold of one of Lillian’s arms while I gripped the other. We were helping Lillian climb the two stairs into her trailer when I spotted something stuck in the ground in front of the mobile home. It was a square white sign, its top edge draped in snow. Squinting, I could just make out the words—Darby Repairs and Renovations—followed by a phone number.

  Darby again.

  We followed Lillian inside. She flicked on the wall switch, and a small lamp resting on an end table snapped to life. A gorgeous mound of striped orange fluff immediately jumped onto the table and purred a vigorous welcome.

  “Elliot, how are you, baby?” I crooned, lifting the cat gently into my arms. “I’ve missed you!”

  Removing her coat, Lillian gave me a weary smile as Elliot nuzzled my damp hair. “He’s glad to see you, too. It’s been a while since you’ve visited us.”

  I’d actually been there about a month ago. Every so often I drop off a bag of cat kibble for Lillian. I always use the excuse of having picked it up at a BOGO—a buy one get one sale—at one of the out-of-town supermarkets. Aunt Tressa calls it my little pink lie.

  Glancing around the small home at the worn but tidy furnishings, I was reminded of the day I first walked in here.

  The Hazleton Humane Society had received an anonymous call about a “cat problem” in Lillian’s trailer. I’d learned about it from Bernice Jessup, a resident in the convalescent home where I read to a group of seniors every Monday evening. Bernice and Lillian had been close friends since childhood. Bernice had been so concerned about her friend that I offered to help.

  Five volunteers showed up at Lillian’s trailer that warm Saturday morning. Convinced that we had only the darkest of motives, she first refused to let us in. After much coaxing, we finally managed to reassure Lillian that we were there to help, not to harm, the cats.

  The stench of urine had hit us first, so powerful it made our eyes water. The kitties—nineteen in all—were crowded into every nook, crack and cranny. All but one were in decent condition, if stressed from living in such cramped conditions. Lillian, who hadn’t realized that the Hazleton Humane Society was a “no-kill” shelter, had collected every homeless cat that wandered into her mobile home park. She couldn’t bear the thought of sending any of her babies to the “pound,” where she was sure they would all be put to death.

  Wearing gloves and masks, we removed all but one cat that day. Later, we returned and scrubbed the trailer from end to end. Elliot, the cat Lillian had adopted as a kitten four years earlier, remained with her. The other cats found loving homes, with the exception of a severely underweight kitty named Smoky, who’d been suffering from feline leukemia. It broke my heart to see him euthanized.

  Lillian hung her coat in the small closet near the door. “Would you ladies like some tea?” she offered weakly.

  “Thanks, Lillian, but we should be going.” It was the first time Aunt Tressa had spoken since we’d walked in. Sadness weighted her usually chipper voice. She reached her arm over my shoulder and stroked Elliot’s furry head.

  Lillian, looking drained and distracted, was absently fingering an odd-looking pendant that hung from a silver strand around her neck. She toyed with it nervously as she stared off into space.

  “I’ve never seen that before, Lillian,” I said, peering more closely at the pendant. It was about an inch in diameter, glowing bright pink, and shaped like a ball of yarn.

  “This? Oh dear, sometimes I forget I’m wearing it. I’ve even worn it to bed a few times without intending to. It was awarded to me for winning last year’s Knitting Extravaganza.”

  “Is that the event your knitting club hosts?” I set Elliot down on the floor.

  “Yes.” Lillian fingered the plastic pendant. “It has an eensy weensy battery, you see, that makes it light up. Since I don’t have any other talents, I’m rather proud of it. Silly, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not silly at all. And I’m sure you have many talents.” I didn’t know that for sure, but I wanted to cheer her up.

  If only she would tell us what was troubling her …

  Aunt Tressa moved closer to admire the pendant, but I could tell her mind was elsewhere. When she rubbed her arms and shivered, I suddenly realized how cold it was in the trailer. For her own sake, I hoped Lillian would crank up the heat a notch or two after we left.

  “Maybe we should let Lillian get some rest,” my aunt said. “We ought to be going, anyway.”

  Lillian looked relieved, which only increased my concern. Any time I’d ever visited her, she couldn’t wait to ply me with tea and cookies. She always hated to see me leave.

  Maybe she was simply exhausted, I reasoned. Being questioned by Chief Fenton in the wake of a nasty murder wasn’t anyone’s idea of spending a relaxing afternoon.

  “You’ll call me if you need anything, right Lillian?” I said. Her face was drawn. She seemed alarmingly frail, as if a breath of air could blow her across the room.

  “Oh, well, I would never want to bother you, Apple. Elliot and I will be just fine, won’t we?” She smiled down at her beloved feline.

  “It wouldn’t be a bother, Lillian. Do you still have my number?”

  “You bet I do, right here.” She tapped an index finger to her temple. “Yours is easy to remember, because it’s the Hazleton exchange, plus eight-six-eight-six. Nineteen eighty-six is the year the ladies and I founded the Hazleton Knitting Club, so I couldn’t possibly forget
it.”

  Aunt Tressa waved good-bye and started for the door, but I still had one more question.

  “Lillian, I noticed you have a Darby Renovations sign in front of your home. Are you having some work done?”

  “Oh, yes!” she said, her voice lifting. “Darby is this lovely man I met when I was browsing in the new pet supply store last week. I was eyeing the most wonderful thing for Elliot—a tall carpeted contraption, like a tree, with a little circular house at the top that he can curl up in. It was expensive, though, almost sixty dollars. I was debating whether or not I should splurge for Elliot when this nice man with a white beard standing beside me offered to build me one for only ten dollars. He told me his name was Jack Darby.”

  Interesting. Ten dollars seemed to be her lucky number today. Or was it so lucky?

  And what was this Darby fellow’s game? Was he trying to take advantage of a trusting senior?

  “Lillian, Jack Darby was at the estate sale today. Did you see him there?”

  “He was?” Lillian looked perplexed. “Why, no, I didn’t see him at all.”

  Not surprising, I thought. The man had the knack of disappearing in the blink of a wayward eye.

  “I’m sure he’d have said hello to me if he’d seen me,” Lillian added. “He’s a very polite man. It’s peculiar, though, isn’t it? I mean, that Mr. Darby would be in the pet store and at the estate sale at the same time I was. What an odd coincidence.”

  Odd indeed. And more than a little suspect.

  “Lillian, if Darby’s only building a carpeted tree for Elliot, why did he put a sign out front? I mean, I can’t imagine it would take him more than a few hours to build.” I chided myself for badgering her, but the whole thing sounded off kilter.

  “Oh, that’s the beauty part.” Her pale blue eyes beamed. “It’s not going to be just a tree. Mr. Darby is going to custom build an entire piece of furniture, with a carpeted walkway that goes high over the sofa and a ramp that leads right to Elliot’s food dish. It’s going to be quite the ticket!”