Some Enchanted Murder

by Linda S. Reilly

  A miniature lamp with a frilly shade sat on Lillian’s night table. I spied something on the floor between the bed and the night table. Bending closer, I saw that it was a plastic alarm clock, its cord still plugged into the wall socket.

  “What do you think happened?” my aunt said, directly behind me.

  I jumped. “Lordy, you scared me. I don’t know what happened, but I don’t like this at all.”

  “Yeah, I agree.” My aunt followed me out of the bedroom.

  The bathroom was spare, with only a few toiletries atop the vanity and a box of yellow tissues on the toilet tank. Gingerly, I peeked behind the shower curtain. I was relieved to find the tub empty.

  On the other side of the bathroom was another door—a closed one. A spare room of some sort, I suspected. Given the size of the trailer, it had to be tiny. I turned the knob, afraid of what might await me on the other side.

  But it was only a storage room. An ironing board leaned against one wall, and a few cardboard boxes sat on the floor. A large shopping bag bulging with skeins of pastel yarn rested on one of the boxes.

  I closed the door.

  A sudden thought struck me. I dashed back to the kitchen area and yanked open the coat closet. “Aunt Tressa, Lillian’s lilac coat is still here.” I turned around. “Aunt Tressa?”

  My aunt was standing beside the sofa, peering at the crumpled scrap of paper in her hand. “Look at this, Apple. It’s a napkin from some restaurant.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “Right here. On the floor.”

  She smoothed out the napkin and handed it to me. It was white and somewhat greasy, made of flimsy stock. Printed diagonally across it, in bright red script, were the words Darla’s Dine-o-Rama ~ New Hampshire’s best eats!

  “I’ve heard of this place. Isn’t it in Hampstead, or Atkinson?”

  “Shush for a minute.” Aunt Tressa grabbed my arm so hard she almost pulled me to the floor. “Did you hear that? Something squeaked.”

  “No, I—”

  Oh, God.

  That wasn’t a squeak. It was a meow.

  Shoving the napkin into my coat pocket, I raced back to Lillian’s bedroom. I dropped to the floor and peered underneath the bed. My gaze was met by a pair of glowing eyes.

  Elliot shot out as if he’d been launched by a catapult. He stopped short when he reached Aunt Tressa, then rubbed vigorously against her boots. She bent and lifted him into her arms. “Oh, sweetie, you must be so cold,” she cooed, rubbing Elliot’s face against her own.

  “He’s probably hungry, too.” I remembered when we’d passed by the kitchen that his food dish had been empty.

  Cuddling Elliot against her faux fur coat, Aunt Tressa carried him into the kitchen. While she fished through the cabinets looking for cat food, I took one last look around.

  And found something that sent my insides plummeting.

  On the floor next to the sofa, tucked behind the end table, was Lillian’s handbag.

  Sheer instinct told me to inspect it, but somehow it seemed wrong, intrusive. Nevertheless, I reached down and grabbed it, then flicked open the latch. After a quick glance inside I went into the kitchen.

  “Aunt Tressa, I don’t think Lillian left voluntarily. I found her purse next to the sofa. With her house key inside.”

  She dropped the bag of cat food she was holding, sending kibble in forty directions.

  I whisked my cell phone out of my purse and punched in 9-1-1.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next few hours felt endless. I reviewed loan applications half-heartedly, focusing instead on the vision that kept drifting before my mind’s eye. I pictured Dora in a checkered blouse and white pedal pushers, her golden hair unpinned and flowing loose about her shoulders. I saw the two of us picnicking on the shore of a sun-dappled lake, munching on sandwiches and sipping lemonade as we made plans for our future …

  “Much as I hate to break it to you ladies, there’s no law against an eighty-something-year-old woman leaving her purse and her cat and going out somewhere.”

  Aunt Tressa and I were huddled in the cold in front of Lillian’s trailer, watching as Chief Fenton flicked the beam of his flashlight all around in the snow. He’d already been inside the trailer. After a few cursory looks around Lillian’s tidy, sparsely furnished rooms he’d deemed there’d been no foul play.

  The beam from his flashlight, diluted by the glaring headlights from his cruiser, crawled over my right front tire. Fenton stooped down, and with a frown ran a long finger over the tread. He stood slowly, his expression grave.

  My insides did a cartwheel. “Did you find something?”

  “I don’t think this tire will pass inspection.”

  I gawked at him. Lillian was missing, and he was wasting

  valuable time examining my tire! “It already passed inspection, Chief.” I didn’t even attempt to filter the irritation from my tone.

  “When, Ms. Mariani? Ten months ago?”

  “It was this past September. My entire car, for that matter, passed with flying colors.”

  “Nonetheless, safety should always come first and—”

  “Paul, have you not heard a word we’ve said?” Aunt Tressa stomped over to him, her Beatle boots puncturing the hardened snow with every exasperated step. “A woman does not—I repeat, does not—leave the house without her purse or her coat. And she left her bed unmade!”

  In Aunt Tressa’s world, leaving home with an unmade bed was on par with going to work in only your bra and panties.

  “So? I got a nephew who’s never made his bed in his life. Every time he stays with me—”

  “You’re forgetting that the door was ajar,” I interjected, my patience wearing thinner by the nanosecond. What did it take to convince this man that something had happened to Lillian?

  “I’m not forgetting anything,” he said coolly. “A female adult, and a very mature one at that, has left her home for who-knowswhat reason. I’m sure she had another coat she could wear. Maybe she’s staying at a friend’s. Maybe she’s even staying at a male friend’s, if you catch my drift. Bottom line, ladies, I’ve got to wait at least twenty-four hours before I can do anything.”

  “What about the napkin, the one from Darla’s Dine-o-Rama?”

  Fenton smirked. “I suppose you think a stray napkin on the floor is supposed to be some kind of clue.”

  “I don’t know what it is, but can’t you at least check it out? Can’t you even consider the possibility that Lillian might be in trouble?”

  “Can’t you, Ms. Mariani, consider the possibility that your friend might’ve eaten at the restaurant, taken a napkin home, and then dropped it near her sofa?”

  My brain was ready to burst out through the back of my skull. It was time for a tactical change. “What about this … Darby person?” I said, pointing at the sign in front of the trailer.

  “What about him?”

  “I think you should question him about Lillian. He promised to build an elaborate walkway for her cat for ten dollars. Does that sound logical to you?”

  “No, but I don’t see the connection. You’re grasping, Ms. Mariani. And you’re coming up with big old handfuls of air. But let me say this.” Fenton pointed a finger at me, a gesture I did not appreciate. “If your friend does turn up missing, then I’m going to be looking at her from a whole new angle.”

  “What are you talking about?” Aunt Tressa said.

  “I mean, maybe she had a reason to want Lou Marshall out of the picture. Maybe your sweet little old lady is a cold-blooded killer.”

  Aunt Tressa threw up her arms. “And maybe you left your common sense home in a bottle by the door. Because you cannot, cannot seriously believe that Lillian Bilodeau has the temperament, let alone the strength, to stab someone.”

  He glared pointedly at her. “I believe everyone has the capacity to kill. Now, if you ladies are through—”

  “We’re not through,” I said, moving toward the trailer. “With Lillian
missing, I’m certainly not going to leave Elliot alone.”

  Fenton moved toward me, but I scurried up the stairs before he could stop me. “Who’s Elliot?” he yelled.

  “Lillian’s cat,” Aunt Tressa informed him, clumping right behind me. When she reached the doorway, she turned on her black-booted heel. “Don’t worry. We won’t swipe the silver.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  This evening, at home alone, I have begun to plan how I will approach Dora. Aside from her name and where she lives, I know little about her. With whom does she live? Her parents? Does she have a bevy of overprotective brothers who will cringe at the idea of a man my age courting their sweet sister?

  Cinnie eyed Elliot from the arm of my sofa as he poked his nose around the living room, exploring the trappings of his temporary new digs.

  Aunt Tressa grinned. “I think they like each other. At least there isn’t any hissing going on.”

  “Yet,” I cautioned.

  Before coming home, we’d made a brief stop at the market for kitty litter and cat food. Having an extra mouth to feed now, I didn’t want to risk running short. With everything we’d had to juggle getting into the house, including one very confused cat, I’d left the ten-pound bag of litter in my car. Tomorrow would be soon enough to retrieve it.

  After I put away my coat, I carried Elliot into the kitchen to show him where the cafeteria was located, then into the bathroom to show him the … well, bathroom. He offered up a few cursory sniffs in the direction of the litter box, then sauntered back to the living room to see what Cinnie was up to.

  “Lord, what a stressful day,” my aunt drawled, pouring herself a glass of spring water from my fridge. “No wonder I’m starving. How about I throw together some kooky macaroni for supper? I haven’t made that in a long time.”

  Aunt Tressa didn’t enjoy spending a lot of time on food preparation. She has flashbacks of her mother always toiling over the stove, using every pan in the house to cook the elaborate meals she was known for. Since Aunt Tressa had always gotten stuck with dishwasher duty—a chore she despised—she now favored simple meals with little fuss.

  But kooky macaroni was an easy, delectable concoction Aunt Tressa invented when I was a kid.

  “Right about now, a plate of kooky macaroni would really hit the spot.” I set down a second dish of kibble and an extra bowl of water for Elliot.

  “Uh-oh, I just remembered. My dishwasher’s been leaking for the past few days. Mind if I cook everything here?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Okay, back in ten,” she said, already striding toward the front door. “I’ve got a new package of ziti, and I want to feed the monkeys first.”

  The monkeys being Pazzo and Ringo, who’d recently perfected their high-wire act on Aunt Tressa’s new valances. The word “pazzo” was Italian for crazy, and it fit the rambunctious little feline to a tee.

  I put away the cat food I’d bought, then set a pot of water on to boil. After that I went upstairs to change. My thong had been crawling up my … well, you can imagine, so I abandoned it in favor of a pair of cotton undies. Right now, having a no-show panty line was low on my list of priorities.

  As I threw on a holiday sweater and a pair of comfy sweatpants, I couldn’t stop thinking of Lillian’s sparse trailer, her purse tucked behind the sofa. For safekeeping, I’d hidden the purse in one of her dresser drawers before we left.

  Where are you, Lillian? Please be all right …

  Downstairs, I extracted a jar of black olives from the back of the fridge and set it on the counter. From the cabinet beneath my kitchen sink, I pulled out the old coffee can I’d stashed there, tore off the cover, and whipped out the plastic bag that housed my secret stash of gummy snakes. I grabbed a teal-colored reptile—yum, blueberry—and stuck it into my mouth. I’d barely finished chomping it and returning the can to its hideout when Aunt Tressa returned. With all the nagging I did about the junk food she ate, I didn’t want her to catch me scarfing down these sugary bad boys. I’d never hear the end …

  My aunt had changed into a pair of snug black stretch jeans, which she’d topped off with a screaming-red sweater emblazoned with glittery white snowflakes. A huge pair of silver reindeer dangled from her ears, their cloven feet resting on her shoulders.

  “I got the ziti”—she plopped her culinary supplies onto my counter—“two packages of shredded cheddar, a jar of marinara sauce, and, best of all, a bottle of port wine.”

  I was grateful she’d brought along the port. I made a mental note to add wine to my grocery list.

  “Just since we’ve been gone,” she griped, “I’ve gotten seven messages on my answering machine. All from reporters, two of whom were from Boston TV stations. Can you believe the gall?”

  I could believe it. That’s what reporters did. But since it didn’t seem like the ideal moment to voice that particular opinion, I poured us each a glass of port instead.

  Aunt Tressa dumped the entire box of ziti into the boiling water. “I need something to nosh on while I cook,” she announced, opening the cabinet doors over my sink. Finding nothing of interest, she moved on to the cabinets above the counter, scanning the contents of each one with all the intensity of a DEA agent searching for illegal drugs.

  I leaned against the counter, a million thoughts circling my brain like birds with no place to land. “What I want to know,” I said, “is why Chief Fenton refuses to admit that something happened to Lillian. I mean, how could it be more obvious?” I took a sip of port, which sent a delicious flare of warmth coursing through me. “What I also want to know is why he made that crack about looking at her from a whole new angle. Did he think that was going to intimidate us?”

  A hand on her hip, Aunt Tressa fixed me with one of her looks. “What I want to know is why you don’t have any more of those cookies with the cinnamon buds in them. Didn’t you buy a bag last week?”

  “You ate those, remember? There’s a box of those garlic chips you like on the left. See it?”

  “Found it.” With a wicked wiggle of her eyebrows, she plucked the box from the cabinet and poured a mound of crackers into a bowl. “To answer both your questions: because he’s crazy, that’s why. He’s been chief in this small, nearly crimeless town for so long that he can’t see the florist for the peas.”

  I roared. “I can’t believe you remembered that!”

  When I was in the fourth grade, I had an art teacher who told me that the pretty horse I’d so painstakingly drawn with my colored pencils looked like a dragon in the final stages of death. Indignant, I’d stomped into the house after school, slapped it onto the fridge with a wad of tape, and announced to Aunt Tressa with all the wounded dignity of a nine-year-old that Mr. Conner couldn’t see the florist for the peas.

  Thoughts of Lillian intruded, sobering me immediately. She’d always seemed so delicate, so frail. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to harm her, unless …

  Unless, I realized grimly, she could identify the murderer.

  “Aunt Tress, what if Lillian saw the murderer? And what if the murderer knows she can identify him?”

  “Then she could be in trouble,” my aunt said. “But we already knew that, didn’t we?” She looked away, then, “I think you should call Daniel.”

  Daniel.

  The name gave my heart a forceful kick, sending it running for safety behind my rib cage.

  Daniel Pryce and I met at Lillian’s several months ago. It was a few weeks after the other volunteers and I had removed the cats from her trailer.

  Concerned about Lillian, who’d been traumatized over the negative publicity from her cat ordeal, the director of the Hazleton animal shelter had contacted the New Hampshire Bureau of Elderly and Adult Services. The Bureau sent a social worker, Daniel Pryce, to investigate her situation. Kind and capable, with eyes the color of a quiet gray sea, Daniel showed up on a drizzly afternoon when I was dropping off a bag of kibble to Lillian. Right from the get-go, it was kismet.

  Or kiss-m
et, as Aunt Tressa likes to call it.

  We clicked, strong and hard, like a seat belt that jerks you backward too tight.

  Daniel hailed from a small but close-knit family, and had always known precisely what he wanted. A woman he could love and cherish, and with whom he could share the joys—and trials—of married life. Add a kid or two to the picture, and his life would pretty much be perfect.

  It was a grand plan, with only one huge glitch.

  Me.

  Don’t get me wrong—I’d been crazy about Daniel. But trust was a humongous issue for me. My mother and father had both bailed on me. How could I be sure he wouldn’t do the same? What if I possessed some deadly flaw that I wouldn’t discover until it was too late?

  So I’d kept my foot firmly on the brake, trying to slow the relationship to an easy pace. Daniel, meanwhile, had shifted into high gear, zooming toward a wedding date and happily ever after. I did the only thing I could think of to slow him down.

  I broke it off.

  I cleared my throat. “I can’t call Daniel. I don’t even know why I should.”

  “Because he cares about Lillian, App. I think he’d want to know that she could be in trouble. He might even be able to help.”

  Part of me, probably the bigger part, knew she was right. But the part that was still that scared, abandoned little girl said, No, don’t go there. It’ll hurt too much to see him …

  “I’ll think about it,” I finally said.

  She sighed. “Fair enough.”

  For a while we were quiet, busying ourselves with our own tasks. Aunt Tressa ripped open the packets of cheese, while I dug out my large casserole dish and coated it with a non-stick spray. I pulled out my colander and set it in the sink.

  Aunt Tressa chuckled when she spied the colander. “My Nana, your great-grandmother, could never remember what that was called when I was a kid. In that darling accent of hers she’d say ‘Teresa, get me that thing. You know, the-pasta-shestay-the-water-she-go thing.’ Cracked me up every time. Too bad she died before you were born. She was such a sweetheart.”