Some Enchanted Murder

by Linda S. Reilly

  “Yes, he was. He thought it was one of the bravest things he’d ever seen.” She popped a slab of cinnamon bun into her mouth.

  “How about your dishwasher? Did he even look at it?”

  “Give me a little credit, Apple. Not only did he look at it, he fixed the leak. It was just a loose screw or bolt or something somewhere in the guts of the thing. He said he was glad I called him because a repairman probably would have charged sixty bucks just to look at it, let alone repair the leak.”

  Of course he did.

  “So what did he charge you?”

  “Um, nothing, actually. He said I could consider it a courtesy repair, since it took him hardly any time at all and because I make the best hot cocoa on the planet.”

  I sighed in growing defeat. “All right, let me cut to the chase. Did you find out how he knows Lillian? And why he offered to build her that thing for Elliot for only ten dollars?”

  “Uhh … no. After you, um, dropped in the way you did and the cops finally left, Jack didn’t want to linger much longer. He was afraid he was keeping me up.”

  Of course he was.

  “So essentially you found out zippo,” I said.

  She held up a finger. “I beg to differ. Now that I know his back story, as they say, I’m ready to move in for a closer examination of the subject.”

  I was way too tired for this. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I invited him to have dinner here with you and me on Wednesday evening.”

  “You did what?”

  “I invited him here for homemade chicken pot pie.” She slid me a sly look. “Care to invite Daniel?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Oh, how delightful she looked when she stepped into the parlor! She wore a simple yellow dress with lace at the collar, and matching bows in her hair. I nearly gasped at the sight of her, but I kept my composure and greeted her as I would a dear friend. She looked a bit paler than usual. Nonetheless, she said it was very thoughtful of me to want to take her to lunch. I asked her if I might call her Lillian, and she smiled and said yes, of course.

  Morning sneaked up behind me, then hit me on the head with a sledgehammer.

  My eyes burning with fatigue, I somehow managed to drag myself into the shower, throw on a half-decent pair of slacks and a blouse, and gobble down some oatmeal in time to deliver Aunt Tressa to her office for an 8:45 appointment.

  Her new clients, whom she’d yet to meet, were a couple in their sixties. They’d told her on the phone they were planning to retire to Myrtle Beach, but only if they could sell the beloved cape they’d raised their family in. At a hefty price, of course. Otherwise, their move to warmer climes would be put on hold indefinitely.

  “They sounded so sweet on the phone,” Aunt Tressa said, toying with the buttons on my radio. “I think I’m going to enjoy working with them.”

  I barely heard her. The bizarre events of the previous evening kept flouncing through my head, skipping around each other like partners in some maniacal square-dance.

  Lillian. Daniel. Darby. I couldn’t get any of them out of my mind.

  Truth be told, I was also annoyed with Aunt Tressa. I loved her more than anyone in the Milky Way, but sometimes she had me teetering on the slippery edge of sanity.

  For starters, you’d never guess she’d been up half the night gabbing with me. Her eyes were positively vibrant this morning, her makeup brighter than usual. Wearing a sparkly green scarf over her black suede jacket, her designer bag propped on her knees, she looked like a seasoned model, ready to march down the runway and take on the world.

  As for me, I felt as droopy as an old spaghetti mop. If only someone would wring me out and stand me in a corner, maybe I could snag a few more minutes of sleep.

  “—you heard a word I said?” My aunt’s trill cut through me like a machete.

  I jumped, then yawned. “Sorry, I wasn’t really listening. I got about forty-seven minutes of sleep last night. Drinking all that tea didn’t help.”

  “I slept like a cat after I went back to my apartment last night,” she chirped. “I must’ve crashed after eating all those sugary cinnamon buns.”

  Not surprising. She polished off nearly five of them.

  Or had it been visions of Jack Darby that sent her sailing off to dreamland with such ease?

  I yawned again as I swung my car into her parking lot. “I meant to ask you—did Wilby make it home all right yesterday?”

  “Yeah, he did. We called his mom, and she came by and picked him up around four-thirty. We chatted a bit, and she agreed to let Wilby have my old cell phone.” She patted her massive handbag. “I’ve got it with me. Wilby’s going to pick it up today, and his mom’s going to get him added to her calling plan.”

  “That’s good. Let me know what time your car will be ready today. Maybe we can pick it up at lunch time.”

  “Sure thing.” She turned and studied me. “Are you going to make it through the day?”

  “I’ll make it,” I said dully. “Tonight I’m going to bed at six o’clock, and heaven help anyone who calls and wakes me.”

  She laughed. “I’ll be doing some cooking and baking tonight, so you won’t hear a word from me.”

  Of course. For the Darby dinner.

  “You are planning to attend tomorrow night,” she said, “are you not?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not really. I was just reminding you. And don’t forget what I said about inviting Daniel.”

  “I’ll think about it.” It was a lie, but I’d crossed my fingers first.

  She grinned as she released her seat belt and sprinted out of the car. “Okay, then. Later!”

  I waited until she was inside, then dug my cell phone out of my purse and called the Hazleton police station.

  “Ms. Mariani.” Chief Fenton’s greeting was several notches below cordial. “Why did I guess that I’d be hearing from you this morning? Before you launch into some long-winded harangue, I’ve already been apprised of what happened last night. Both times,” he added snidely.

  I tamped down the first retort that came to mind and opted for the second. “The first 9-1-1 call was an innocent mistake. In fact, I should think the police would be glad that it was a false alarm and that they didn’t walk into some horrifically bloody crime scene. As for Lillian’s phone call—”

  “We’re already looking into it, Ms. Mariani. As soon as we learn something, you’ll be … one of the first to know.”

  I silently counted to three. It seemed like a moot issue now, but I needed to ask. “I assume you checked all the area hospitals yesterday?”

  “Affirmative. They were a dead end. Now if that’s all, Ms. Mariani—”

  “Wait a minute. Isn’t there some way Lillian’s cell phone company can track where her call came from last night?”

  “I repeat, Ms. Mariani, we’re looking into it. We’ve already been in contact with her cell phone carrier. I can appreciate your concern for your friend, but you have to trust that we know what we’re doing.” With another half-hearted pledge to keep me informed, he disconnected.

  I headed for my office.

  Miniature snow mountains lined the rear of the town parking lot. The painted lines were hidden beneath packed ice, so I inserted my Honda between Sam’s Buick and the aging coupe that Vicki drove.

  Coffee. Right now it was all I could think about.

  I picked my way carefully across the icy lot. On the sidewalk, I spotted the wire trash receptacle with its THANK YOU FOR NOT LITTERING reminder bolted onto the front. I remembered the cellophane wrapper from the mint I’d snagged at the antique shop the day before—it was still in my coat pocket. I pulled it out. I was tossing it into the bin when I spied something in the barrel that was disturbingly familiar. A chill washed over me.

  On top of the myriad paper cups and candy wrappers and other assorted trash, a brightly wrapped package tied with a gold bow sat unopened. Fluttering out from beneath the bow was a hand-made tag. Happy Holid
ays Vicki—Celeste and Blake.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Lillian’s eyes widened the moment we entered the dining room of the Hazleton Inn, which nearly sang with the scent of apples and cloves. I saw instantly how impressed she was with the elegant décor. She looked at me and smiled, those spectacular blue eyes warming me to the core. My heart soared …

  “There she is. Apollonia Nicole Mariani, my favorite paralegal.” Blake Dwardene leaned over and dropped a quick kiss on my cheek, then lowered his athletic form into the chair opposite my desk.

  “Well, it’s nice to see you, too, Mr. Dwardene. Have a seat,” I told him. “I’ve got your docs all ready to sign.”

  “The deed, too?”

  I feigned exasperation. “Of course the deed, too. Did you doubt moi?”

  He laughed. “Not for a moment.” A yawn escaped him. “Sorry. I’ve been dragging these past few days. A lot’s been going on.”

  For the first time since I’d known him, I thought Blake looked stressed. His handsome face was drawn and pale, his expression weary. I hazarded a guess. “Not sleeping?”

  “No, it’s not that. In fact, I’ve been sleeping pretty well. It’s just that … well, ever since Lou’s murder, I’ve been having these crazy, jumbled dreams. By morning I can’t even remember them, but I wake up feeling more draggy than when I went to bed.”

  “I can sympathize. I’ve been having some nutty dreams myself. I think Lou Marshall’s murder’s had a creepy effect on all of us. Hopefully you’ll be able to put it all behind you once you land in New York.”

  He nodded, but looked unconvinced. “Yeah, I hope you’re right.”

  “Celeste and I chatted for a while yesterday,” I told him. “Oh Blake, she is so excited about the move. I’m really thrilled for both of you. And thank you both for the delectable culinary gift. My aunt and I made a hefty dent in those babies last night!”

  “Oh, gosh, you’re welcome. Celeste was just itching to deliver those packages to all of you yesterday. She loves showering her friends with her baked goods.”

  “I know she does.” I didn’t tell him that one of those packages was sitting, unopened, in a trash barrel.

  “It’s going to seem strange, though, living in New York.” He looked away thoughtfully. “I’ve never even lived outside of Hazleton, let alone in a big city. I just hope Celeste won’t be disappointed if everything doesn’t pan out as quickly as she thinks it will.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He blew out a breath. “Well, she’s banking all her hopes on starting her new business there, lassoing in all kinds of rich and famous customers. I keep trying to remind her, gently, that it might not be all that easy. The competition will be fierce, especially against all those established gourmet bakeries and catering services. It’s not like it is here, Apple. I mean, it’s the big bad city.”

  I smiled. “You make it sound so decadent. I think you need to have more faith in Celeste. She’s a smart woman. She knows what she wants, and she’s going for it. I really admire her.”

  “Yeah, I know. Look, I’m nuts about her. She’s the best thing that ever came into my life. I want her to succeed beyond her wildest desires. She—” He shook his head and looked away.

  I waited. I could see that he was struggling.

  “She had it so tough growing up,” he finally said. “Well, heck, you remember her in school, right?Wasn’t she in your trig class?”

  “My trig class and senior English,” I confirmed, a sudden, awful memory leaping into my head.

  I’d been in tenth grade, juggling a pile of books, hurrying to get to trig class on time. Celeste had rushed in behind me, her unruly blond hair framing her thin face like a fuzzy wig. Instead of one of the faded blouses she typically wore, she had on a beautiful cashmere sweater—dark red with tiny pearls on the cuffs. The bell rang, and everyone scrambled into their seats. Then, from the back of the classroom, a squeal erupted. “Oh good glory, I recognize that sweater!” The voice belonged to Kirsten Davis, one of the junior varsity cheerleaders. She was pointing a manicured finger at Celeste. “It used to belong to my sister. Before she donated it to Goodwill, that is!”

  Several of Kirsten’s friends—her fellow squad members— burst into unmerciful giggles. Pleased with herself for providing such hearty entertainment, Kirsten gave a little bow.

  I remember wanting to cry for Celeste, wanting to lash out at her tormentors. Mr. Decker, our trig teacher, had ordered immediate silence, but the snickering and whispering went on for several minutes. Celeste stared at her desk during the whole period, never raising her head. When class was over she raced out. I didn’t see her the rest of that day.

  “I remember,” I told Blake quietly, “that her mother cleaned houses for a living. She didn’t earn enough to buy Celeste new clothes very often. Some of the snooty girls, mostly Kirsten Davis’s crowd, were always poking fun at the way Celeste dressed. They were horrible to her.”

  “I know, and I’m embarrassed to say I was one of the guys who never looked twice at her then. She had brains and beauty, but I was too dumb to see beyond the frizzy hair and the dowdy duds.” He shook his head. “What a jerk I was.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” I said. “Besides, Celeste showed everyone, didn’t she? Bested them all, especially Kirsten Davis. Last I heard Kirsten was working at the mall in Manchester, selling candles at one of those kiosks. She’s been married and divorced twice, and now she’s living with her dad.”

  Blake chuckled. “Really? Now that’s what I call karma.”

  “What about Celeste’s mother?” I asked him. “Are they close?”

  “Nah. Those two were never close. Marie is all about Marie. Always has been, always will be. She hops from one slimy boyfriend to the next, if I may be so blunt. The only relative Celeste was ever close to was her grandmother.”

  “Celeste told me a little about her,” I said. “She still misses her, doesn’t she?”

  “Yeah, a lot. Poor old lady smoked herself to death, but she loved Celeste like crazy and Celeste adored her. I think Celeste pushed herself to succeed mostly to make her gram proud.”

  “Well I, for one, am enormously happy for both of you.” I slid a packet of documents in front of Blake and dug my notary seal and some ballpoint pens out of my desk. “Have you, um, heard anything more about Lou’s murder? Do you think the police might be close to an arrest?” I was fishing without so much as a pole, but I hoped Blake might have a tidbit or two to share about the investigation.

  “The crime scene people spent all day Sunday at the mansion. According to Fenton, they inspected every nook and cranny of that room. Problem is, there were so many people at the estate sale that day, the crime scene was compromised from the get-go.”

  “Compromised?” I smiled. “You sound like an investigator yourself.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s in my best interest to see the murderer nailed so we can put this all behind us as quickly as possible. Fact is …” He brushed an imaginary speck from his sleeve. Again, I waited. “I’d had a little go-around with Lou earlier that afternoon. The day of the murder,” he added ominously.

  “Go-around?”

  “An argument.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Shoot, but the man could be a pain in the butt. A lot of the stuff that was still in the house that day was supposed to have been delivered to the antique shop in town early last week. That was Lou’s job, but he didn’t do it. He said there’d be plenty of time after the estate sale, that he had the mover all lined up.”

  “You know what they say about the best-laid plans.”

  “Yeah, exactly. And those daggers,” Blake said darkly, “shouldn’t have been in the house at all. The collector who was buying them offered to pick them up two weeks ago, but Lou wanted the daggers to stay there until after the estate sale. He claimed they’d draw a bigger crowd, since lots of people knew Edgar collected them.”

  “Even if they weren’t for sale?”

  “That’s just
it, see?” Blake twirled his finger next to his ear. “Lou’s thinking was a little warped. I mean, the guy knew his collectibles, and as an auctioneer he was unrivaled. But he was the worst procrastinator I’d ever seen. Everything had to get down to the wire with him.”

  I nodded, thinking. I was beginning to see Lou Marshall from an entirely different angle—an angle that cast a slight shadow over his pristine reputation.

  “So is that what you two argued about?”

  “Pretty much, yeah. There was also some personal stuff, but I won’t even get into that.”

  “Do … did the police consider you a, um, person of interest, as they say?”

  Blake laughed. “Oh yeah, along with Celeste, and your aunt, and that jerk Josh Baker. Oh, would I love it if Josh turned out to be the killer. You do know, right, that he was the one who found Edgar’s body that day?”

  “I’d heard that, yes,” I said evasively. What I didn’t know was why Blake disliked Josh so intensely. “Blake, what is it about Josh that bugs you so much?”

  “Come on, Apple, get real. Young guy moves in with an old codger like Edgar, pays practically nothing in rent. The guy’s a user, a gold digger. He was worming his way into Edgar’s good graces, hoping he’d inherit something when Edgar finally bought it.”

  “I don’t know, Blake. I had the impression Josh was genuinely fond of your uncle. Josh didn’t have much of a relationship with his own father, you know. The man traveled all the time on business and was never around. I know this sounds kind of trite, but I think Josh bonded with Edgar. I think they became friends.”

  “Anything’s possible,” Blake conceded. “But personally, I’m not buying it. And I don’t believe Edgar gave him the car. I think Edgar sold him the car, and after he died Josh decided he didn’t want to pay for it. The guy’s an actor, Apple, pure and simple.”

  Another old memory grabbed me. Little Josh, barely eight years old, playing the role of coroner in TheWizard of Oz at the now defunct Children’s Playhouse in Hazleton. I was fourteen or fifteen at the time. I’d attended the performance with one of my high school buds and her mother, an elementary school teacher. We’d all been impressed by Josh’s performance. For such a young boy, he’d been quite a skilled actor.