Some Enchanted Murder

by Linda S. Reilly

  “Another police car?”

  I groaned. “I had an incident earlier in the evening, but it turned out to be a false alarm. But this time I really need Chief Fenton to contact me. Please. A woman’s life is in jeopardy.” From the foot of the bed, Cinnie sat on her haunches and gazed worriedly at me. I was sure she was wondering if I’d lost my mind.

  “Ma’am,” the dispatcher said, not unkindly, “a patrol car is already on its way. It will be there in approximately two minutes. If the responding officers agree that a call to Chief Fenton is in order, they’ll handle that for you. In the meantime, please stay on the line.”

  Still gripping the phone, I leaped out of bed. I juggled it from one hand to the other while I slid my arms into my flannel robe and shoved my feet into slippers. I was on my way downstairs when my doorbell rang.

  “Gotta run. They’re here,” I told the dispatcher.

  This time I got a man and a woman. The female half of the equation was about six feet tall, and looked agonizingly thin beneath her long wool coat. Her shorter, rounder partner, who identified himself as Sergeant Dave Everhart, flashed an ID at me. “Come on in,” I told them wearily.

  The pair plopped onto the sofa. With a longing look at one of my throw pillows, Sergeant Everhart stifled a yawn. He dredged a notepad the size of a business card out of his jacket pocket, then stuck his hand in his pocket again and dug out a pen.

  Having done it so many times by now, I related the story of Lillian’s disappearance in record time. “So don’t you think you should call Chief Fenton?” I prodded when I was through.

  The female officer lanced me with a glare, as if I were casting aspersions on her ability to handle her job. Her partner merely shook his head. “There’s no need for that. We’ll make a full report. I’ll make sure Chief Fenton has it on his desk first thing in the morning.”

  “But … can’t you find out where Lillian was calling from? Isn’t there some way the cell phone company can trace her location?” By now Cinnie and Elliot had joined us, and were waltzing around my feet. I’d have sworn Elliot shot a reproving look at the female officer, whose name I still didn’t know.

  “That depends on a variety of factors,” Everhart said, peering at his notes. “Now if she’d called nine-one-one—”

  “I don’t think she did.” I blew out a tired sigh. “Several months ago, Lillian had a problem with an overabundance of cats. Unfortunately it made the news, and people began labeling her as a nut. The truth is, she was just a caring woman who couldn’t turn away a stray.”

  “I remember that,” Everhart’s partner piped in. “Lady had what, ninety cats in her trailer?”

  “Nineteen,” I corrected, “and that’s exactly what I mean. The story got blown way out of proportion. It made Lillian afraid to go to the police for help. They didn’t exactly shower her with empathy during her ordeal. The bottom line is that she trusts me, and I told her to call me if she ever needed anything.”

  Everhart’s expression softened. “So you think she called you, knowing you’d know what to do.”

  “In a peanut shell, yes.”

  “I’m still confused.” Everhart tapped his pen on his knee. “If she had her cell phone with her, why didn’t she call you sooner? And why would the kidnapper let her keep her phone in the first place?”

  “I realize none of it makes sense, Sergeant. She sounded drugged, that much I’m sure of.”

  “And you have no idea what she meant by ‘blue blood’?”

  “None whatsoever.” I wasn’t even totally sure that’s what Lillian had said, but it wouldn’t help my credibility rating to admit that.

  “Does Miss Bilodeau have any substance abuse problems?” he prodded. “Does she drink? Take drugs?”

  Was he kidding? “Of course not. Sergeant, Lillian is in her eighties.”

  The pair exchanged barely disguised smiles. “Substance abuse has no age limits, Miss. You’d be surprised at the things we see.”

  Yes, I would be, but maybe I was more naive than I realized. Maybe every day there were gangs of seniors prowling the streets of Hazleton, snorting cocaine as they guzzled down shots of aged whiskey.

  Or maybe I was just feeling snarky.

  I answered a few more questions, then gave Lillian’s cell phone number to Everhart. Hoisting his plump form off the sofa, he promised to do some checking into the cell phone call, though he didn’t offer any details as to what that might entail.

  I followed them to the door and watched them hustle back to their patrol car. Aunt Tressa stepped out of her front door in time to see them drive off into the night. Wrapped in a red velour robe and wearing her fuzzy orange feet, she trounced behind me into my apartment. “What in the name of Jiminy Cricket is going on? I woke up and saw those crazy blue lights flashing on my window shade again. I thought I was having a psychedelic nightmare.”

  It was a nightmare, of sorts.

  “Come on, I’ll make us some tea,” I said over a huge yawn. It wasn’t as if I’d be getting much more sleep, anyway. “I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

  Over mint-flavored tea and a plate of Celeste’s homemade buns, I told her everything. About Daniel calling me, about our visit to Lillian’s trailer. And finally about the cryptic call I received from Lillian on her cell phone.

  “So, you were with Daniel?” she said, a distinct look of triumph flashing in her eyes.

  “That’s not the point,” I said wearily. “We’re both concerned for Lillian’s safety, that’s all it was about.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh,” she said doubtfully.

  “Aunt Tress, haven’t you heard what I said? Lillian called me, and she sounded drugged.”

  “Of course I heard you, and I’m just as worried as you are.” She licked a glob of sugary glaze off her forefinger. “What I can’t figure out is this: if she was kidnapped, why did she still have access to her cell phone? Wouldn’t that be the first thing the kidnapper would take away?”

  Exactly what Everhart had asked me, and I still didn’t have an answer. I told her what Daniel had said about Lillian sleeping with it in her pajama pocket. “When I searched her room last night, it wasn’t anywhere to be found. Somehow, wherever she is, she must have managed to take it with her. After that last call, though, I’m sure all of that’s changed.” A shiver ripped through me.

  Aunt Tressa shook her head. “Poor woman. Wherever she is, she’s probably so scared. Did you and Daniel land on anything that might have given up a clue as to where she is, or who snatched her?”

  “Not really.” I told her about the photos and the personal letters we found. “Some of those letters were so sad, Aunt Tress. I wish now I’d never read them.”

  “Yeah, I hear you. Besides, how helpful can sixty-year-old letters be?”

  “Exactly what Daniel and I said.”

  She looked at me, then spoke softly. “Seriously, App, how was it, being with Daniel again?”

  I shrugged, but my throat felt taut. “Strange. Nice. Awful.” Part of me—the needy part—wanted to pour out my feelings. But my protective shield instantly slammed into place, warning me to keep my emotions to myself and deal with it privately. “For now, let’s stick to figuring out how we can help Lillian, okay?”

  She nodded. “At least we know she’s alive.”

  “Yes, but after tonight, how long is that going to last?”

  Aunt Tressa went to the cabinet for two more tea bags and poured us each a second cup. “We won’t be getting much sleep anyway,” she reasoned. “Might as well indulge ourselves.”

  I picked up my spoon and squished the tea bag around in my mug. The minty aroma wafted toward me, clearing my senses. I thought about Lillian’s strange words.

  Blue blood.

  “Aunt Tress, what do you think Lillian meant by ‘blue blood’?”

  “Are you sure that’s what she said?”

  “No, but that’s what it sounded like. She sort of dragged out the words, like she was having trouble p
ronouncing them. Which she probably was, since I’m sure she’d been drugged.”

  “People usually say ‘blue blood’ when they’re talking about a fancy-pants aristocratic family.”

  “Which leaves out you and me and pretty much everybody I know.”

  “What about the Dwardenes?”

  I scoffed. “First of all, there’s only one Dwardene left—Blake. Second, I’d hardly consider the family aristocratic.” I could still picture Blake’s dad flouncing around at the graduation party in that silly bikini top.

  Aunt Tressa looked at me thoughtfully. “But think about it, App—Lillian just might. In her day the Dwardenes were a staid old banking family. Wasn’t it Blake’s great-great uncle who founded the old Hazleton Savings Bank?”

  I nodded. “And before the mansion fell into disrepair, it was probably the classiest home in town.”

  “I rest my case.”

  And I didn’t like what all of this implied. If Lillian’s blue blood reference was intended to mean the Dwardenes, and Blake was the sole surviving heir …

  Squashing the thought, I turned the table on her. “Don’t you have some things to share with me, Aunt Tress? First of all, I never got a full report from you about what Fenton wanted to see you about.”

  My aunt quirked an eyebrow at me. “A full report, officer?”

  “You know what I mean. Don’t play coy with me, missy.”

  With a sly smile, Aunt Tressa reached for another bun. “You know, even with all the healthy grains Celeste pumps into these things, they’re positively scrumptious. You gotta hand it to her— the woman can bake.”

  “Okay, now you’re avoiding. Do I have to bring out the hot lights?”

  Aunt Tressa winced. “All right, here goes. I didn’t want to tell you earlier because I knew you’d worry yourself into a tizzy. Three days before Lou was murdered, I … I broke up with him.”

  “What?” I was flabbergasted. She hadn’t given out a single sign that anything had been amiss between them.

  “I knew it wasn’t going anywhere, and I could see that he thought it was. But he was never going to be another Marty, or anything even close to that, so I had to end it.”

  I still wasn’t wrapping my brain around this. “But I thought you had a real friendship going with Lou. You both enjoyed eating out, going to movies—”

  “We did. See, that’s the thing. If we could have kept everything at that level, it would’ve been okay. But Lou wanted more, much more, and he definitely wanted …” With that unfinished tidbit, she averted her eyes.

  “Never mind, don’t tell me.” I let out a sigh. This new revelation had my head twirling like a parade baton. “So what does all this have to do with Fenton?”

  My aunt toyed with the handle of her red Santa mug. “On Sunday the police searched Lou’s house. Including, of course, what was on his home computer and his answering machine. Seems they found the somewhat scathing e-mail I sent him last Wednesday. Not to mention the uncensored message I left on his answering machine.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  “Let’s just say Lou made a crack Tuesday night that I didn’t take very kindly to, and leave it at that.”

  “You don’t want to share the ‘crack’ with me?”

  She shook her head. “It was nasty, repulsive, and in very poor taste. All I’ll tell you is that it concerned a particular piece of my anatomy. A piece that Lou apparently found quite alluring. But it was the way he said it that was so offensive.” She clenched her mug tightly in both hands. I was afraid that any moment it might shatter. “He dragged Marty’s name into the conversation.”

  Good gravy on a dog biscuit. Had the man been insane? Had he been totally oblivious of the fact that Aunt Tressa worshipped her late husband?

  “No wonder his ‘crack,’ whatever it was, set you off. I’m surprised I didn’t see the explosion from my window.”

  “I triedtoletit go, but I couldn’t. When I wokeup Wednesday morning, I was even madder than I was the night before. First thing I did was plunk my fanny down in front of my computer and zip off a caustic e-mail to him.” She made a wry face. “Obviously I wouldn’t have done that if I’d known what was going to happen.”

  “So now Fenton thinks you had a motive to kill him,” I said, “based on one e-mail that he found in Lou’s in-box, and your nasty phone message. The man is unbelievable!”

  “Fenton’s been trying to pin this on me from day one,” Aunt Tressa said. “He has no idea who killed Lou. He doesn’t even know how to investigate a murder, since Hazleton hasn’t had one since nineteen seventy-one.”

  A million separate thoughts crashed around inside my head. “There’s something I still don’t understand. Why were you so anxious to talk to Lou at the mansion on Saturday?”

  “After I sent Lou that e-mail, he kept calling me. Bugging me on my cell, ringing me late at night. He kept trying to explain, saying he wanted another chance. He didn’t get that it was over, that he’d never been more than a friend in the first place. I knew I’d have to confront him, face to face, if I was ever going to end his bothering me, but I wanted to do it someplace where other people would be close by. The estate sale gave me the perfect opportunity.”

  “Were you afraid he might cause a scene? Get violent?”

  “Violent, no, but yes, I was afraid he might get a bit … vociferous.” She gave a tepid laugh. “That’s why I spent all that time in the bathroom that day. I was stalling, trying to get up the nerve to go in and talk to him.”

  I thought about the “ick” factor in my aunt’s revelation about Lou. “I’m beginning to see Lou in a whole new light,” I said. “Maybe he wasn’t the person we thought he was. I’m thinking now that he may have had enemies.”

  “I suppose. Still, I feel bad talking about him this way. Until he made that horrid remark about my—well, he hadn’t seemed like a bad guy. A little clingy, maybe, a little pushy. But not a terrible person.”

  “Not to change the subject,” I said, “but all this talk of Lou just reminded me. Do you remember seeing Vicki Pomeroy at the estate sale?”

  “Yeah, she was there. When you and I first went in, I saw her gawking at something on a knickknack shelf. When she turned her head I raised my hand to say hello, but she just gave me an odd look and darted away. She’s been acting strange toward me for a while now.”

  “I feel kind of bad for her,” I said, and explained what Celeste had told me about Vicki’s apparent crush on Lou.

  “I guess that explains why she’s been giving me the evil eye of late.” Aunt Tressa’s right eyebrow shot upward. “You don’t think …”

  I stared blankly at her, then realized where she was going. “That she killed Lou? Glory, no, I can’t picture that at all. Even if it was unrequited love, as Celeste called it, Vicki doesn’t have an aggressive bone in her body. Oh sure, she complains a lot, about everything, but …” I shook my head. “No, somehow I just can’t picture Vicki doing in Lou.”

  “Well, I say we don’t let anyone off the hook until the murderer is breaking rocks up at the granite quarry in Concord.”

  I chuckled. “I don’t think prisoners do that sort of thing anymore.”

  “Pardon me. Until the murderer is sitting in his cell with his laptop, e-mailing all the members of his fan club.”

  “Are you so sure it was a him?”

  She cocked a finger at me. “Interesting question.”

  “Isn’t it?” I said. “And before you go off on another tangent, it’s time you dished out the dirt on Darby.”

  To my surprise, my aunt did something I’d rarely ever seen her do.

  She blushed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Lillian—her middle name! I had always addressed her as Dora, and she never corrected me. Strangely, I felt buoyed by this revelation, small though it was. I chatted amiably with Mother Dora while I waited for Lillian. She tittered like a schoolgirl when I related a humorous story about one of the bank’s eccentric custom
ers. I saw, clearly, that the path to winning Dora’s (Lillian’s!) hand would be by earning her mother’s approval …

  “I knew it! You like Darby, don’t you?”

  “Like?” Aunt Tressa rolled her eyes. “You make me sound like a teeny-bopper. But yes, as a matter of fact, I like Jack very much. As it turns out, the man has led a colorful and fascinating life.”

  I crossed my arms in front of me, school principal style. “I see. So, tell me about him. How old is he? Has he always been a handyman? Does he live alone? Has he ever been married?”

  “Would you like to know what he scored on his college boards, too?” she asked innocently. I glared at her. “All right, point taken.” I reached for a cinnamon bun. “Split this one with me?” “You have to ask?” I fetched a knife and severed the bun in two, then slid the larger segment onto her plate. “He actually grew up in a rural town outside of Scranton.

  His folks were in their thirties when they had him, or rather, adopted him. He was an only child, so they doted on him. In high school he played drums in a rock band. After high school he went to Villanova, where he graduated cum laude. Did a stint in the Air Force; always wanted to be a fly boy, but his eyesight wasn’t good enough. He discovered his true calling when he took up carpentry and realized he could create just about anything with wood. He’s lived all over the country: Montana, San Diego, Buffalo.”

  “A drifter,” I said flatly.

  “A consummate adventurer,” she corrected, then took a long pull on her tea.

  “So how did he end up here,” I demanded, “in picturesque Hazleton, New Hampshire?”

  My aunt hesitated. “I’m not sure, actually. We didn’t quite get that far, if you catch my drift.”

  It was my turn to blush. “Aunt Tress, I’m so sorry about that. I honestly, truly thought you were in danger.”

  She laughed. “I told you, knock it off with your sorries. Besides, Jack was very impressed. He thought your courage was absolutely amazing!”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I joke you not.”

  “He was impressed with my charging through your front door like a rhinoceros, rolling pin raised and ready to bash him on the head?”