Fruit of All Evil

by Paige Shelton

  “Oh? Oh. But according to what I saw, it looked like Madeline did try to call her back. Maybe they resolved whatever the issue was. Or maybe not.”

  “Maybe not is right. It doesn’t look good does it? I know I should tell Sam, but I keep thinking Jeanine will call or show up, and we can get it cleared up. She was so adamant that she didn’t want me to say a word to anyone about it. I shouldn’t be telling you.”

  The police would want this information, but I still didn’t think Jeanine was a killer. There must have been some mistake regarding the foreclosure notice. Jeanine was a rich woman, or at least extra-comfortable. I doubted that she would have killed over anything, let alone a paperwork mistake. There had to be something else. Someone else.

  I said, “Don’t tell Sam, not yet. He’d like to talk to Jeanine, but that’s based on Madeline’s phone list. If Jeanine had been home when Officer Norton stopped by, all of this would probably be cleared up. Now, Sam’s more curious than anything. Let’s not make Jeanine look guiltier than she already does. Sam’s got other things he can look at. Plus, he’s going to talk to the bank. Maybe he’ll figure it out from that end.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Allison said, “but no promises.” This was eating at her. Most of the time Allison saw the world and its issues in black-and-white; there were no gray areas. She knew the right thing to do, knew the correct answer, knew the appropriate response. This was the first time I’d seen her unsure what to do next.

  A knock suddenly boomed on her office door, launching me off the chair.

  Allison smiled. “You feel guilty, too. See, it isn’t good to keep secrets, is it?”

  Allison had to assist with some sort of crate delivery problem, solidifying my belief that while she might be better at almost everything than I was, it was vastly more fun to sell jams and preserves than deal with delivery issues.

  Despite what she had said, I thought it was just fine to keep a secret or two. It was necessary sometimes. I wouldn’t tell Sam—or anyone—what Allison had told me, but not because I wanted to investigate it on my own. I wouldn’t risk the chance of Allison not wanting to ever share with me again.

  As I thought about Jeanine, I threaded my way through the smallish crowd left at Bailey’s and toward my stall. Usually, late afternoons were quiet, and the best time to visit with other vendors, or relax and wait for the few customers left to finish their shopping. I waved at Herb and Don as I passed their stall.

  “Becca, you’re here?” Herb asked as he lifted a small rack display from his table.

  “I’m here. Were you looking for me?”

  “Only to tell you that someone else was looking for you,” Herb continued.

  “Who?”

  Herb bit at his bottom lip. “Darn it. Don, what did that guy say his name was—the one who was looking for Becca?”

  Don duplicated Herb’s lip biting. “Give me a minute.”

  “He was blond, good looking, nice enough guy,” Herb said as he thought.

  “Was his name Alan?” I asked, taking a pretty sure guess.

  “That’s it! And, he didn’t really want to talk to you as much as he wondered if you’d ever talked about selling your property. I told him I didn’t think so. Do you? Are you selling?”

  “Never, not in a million years.” I bit back the other choice words I had for Alan. I thought about what Sam had said. Alan hadn’t done anything wrong, that was true, but he was certainly irritating. “When did he come by?”

  “Gosh, late morning, I think,” Herb said. He looked at Don, who nodded confirmation.

  That was right after I left with Sam.

  “Did he say anything else?” I asked.

  “Well, he asked if we’d seen Jeanine, which we hadn’t. He also asked about other properties up for sale. I couldn’t help him at all.”

  “Did he, by chance, leave any contact information?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks for letting me know.”

  “Sure. And Allison stopped by to tell me about the ambush wedding. I’ll be prepared if you need me. How are Linda and Drew?” Herb asked.

  “Ambush, huh? Well, we’re shooting for a pleasant surprise. I think Linda and Drew are hanging in there, but I haven’t talked to them today.”

  “Give them our condolences, and let me know if you need any help with anything.”

  I continued down the long aisle, visiting with other vendors or helping some of them load their trucks and vans. Speaking of pleasant surprises, I had one when I saw that my stall had been completely cleared, all my items packed in the back of my truck.

  It had been a long two days, and I wanted to get home to Hobbit and write down some notes about what had happened. I pulled out my cell phone to call Ian and see if he wanted to come over for dinner, but the phone rang before I could push Ian’s speed dial button.

  The number had a South Carolina area code, but it was unfamiliar.

  “Becca Robins,” I answered.

  “Becca, this is Sally McNeil,” the voice drawled.

  “Sally, hi. Thanks for calling me back.”

  “Certainly. What can I do for you?” She sniffed. Was she crying?

  “Sally, do you have a few minutes? I’d love to ask . . . well, I’d love to talk to you some more.” I hadn’t prepared a good reason or good lie. Hopefully she wouldn’t push the matter.

  “Right now?”

  “Sure, unless you’re busy.”

  “No, darlin’, I’m not busy, and I’d love to talk to you, but not over the phone. Can you meet me tomorrow morning?”

  “In Columbia?”

  “Oh, no, darlin’, I’m still in Monson. I want to wait until the police figure out Auntie’s . . . murder before I go home. I’m stayin’ at the Monson Inn, and I have an appointment for a pedicure tomorrow mornin’ at the salon next door—Hard as Nails, I think it’s called. How ’bout you meet me there at nine o’clock and I’ll call them and get you an appointment? I find there’s nothin’ better’n a little socializin’ while I get my toes done. What do you say?”

  I had never had a pedicure before, and I thought about what I’d have to do to the calluses on the bottoms of my feet to prepare them to be seen by a professional. I didn’t want to have a pedicure, but Sally had a point; she would probably be relaxed and willing to gossip, and that was ideal.

  “Uh, sure, that sounds like fun.”

  “All right, then. See you tomorrow.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  I hung up and thought about where I could pick up a pumice stone on my way home.

  Fourteen

  “What did you tell her?” Ian asked. He and I sat were sitting on George’s couch. George faced us from his old leather high-backed chair, and Hobbit was curled up at his feet. I was decidedly Hobbit’s favorite human, but when Ian was around, she felt the need to split her time between the two of us. And when George was present, she gave him her full attention, especially when we were in George’s house.

  The room was the kind where you half expected the smell of pipe smoke to be combined with the scent of worn leather. In the winter, when George lit the wood in the fireplace, it was heavenly.

  We were invited to dinner at George’s, so instead of going home to Hobbit and staying there, I picked her up and we made our way back to town.

  “I agreed to go,” I said. “I could use a pedicure, I suppose.”

  I’d unloaded my leftover inventory from my truck but hadn’t taken the time to find a pumice stone. My feet would have to be fine the way they were, though I wondered how many thirty-five-year-old nail salon customers hadn’t had a pedicure before. Maybe I’d win a prize or something.

  As dinner cooked, we “lounged” in the best part of George’s old French Tudor house. Full and inviting bookshelves surrounded us. There was a painting above the fireplace of George in his younger days, when he had dark hair and a tall, trim body. He was still trim, but the years had taken some of his height and turned his hair steely gray. Even
with thick glasses he couldn’t see well, and though he could still work his way around a kitchen, many times Ian would read to him from one of the thousands of murder mysteries on the shelves. Hobbit and I had become an eager part of the story time audience.

  “So,” George interjected, “tell me about this young man, Drew Forsyth, and his relationship with his mother.” George, though saddened that someone had died, had been excited to talk about a real-life murder mystery; thus the dinner invitation. Once Ian told him we’d been part of the group to discover the body, George insisted on hearing the details.

  “Oh, well”—I sat up straighter—“Drew’s an amazing guy, really. He’s kind, he’s handsome, and he loves Linda very much. He’s in the military, which both impresses me and makes me watch my manners when I’m around him. I’m not sure about his relationship with his mother, but I’m determined to understand it better. Linda said that Madeline had a soft spot, and I never heard Drew say one thing bad about his mom. Linda was often frustrated by something Madeline had done, but to be honest with you, I can’t think of one specific thing Linda told me. I wish I’d asked her more questions when she was frustrated, but I just tried to be supportive and not add to Madeline’s terrible reputation.”

  “Do you think Drew could have killed his mother? To clear the path for his new wife, maybe?” George asked.

  I hesitated. I still hadn’t told anyone what I’d overheard in the men’s bathroom at the police station. After Linda told me that she and Drew had been together all afternoon, I thought I would talk to Drew myself. I felt I owed him that, at least. I didn’t want Drew Forsyth to be a killer, but I had to acknowledge that his profession might give him a trained advantage in that area. The longer I kept the secret to myself, the more I wondered about his involvement. “The thought crossed my mind, but I don’t have much to go on. I can’t begin to tell you how much I hope he isn’t. Beyond the fact that he’s Linda’s fiancé, he’s supposedly reporting for active duty next week. This has to get solved quickly.”

  “He’s still going?” It was George’s turn to sit up straighter.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Hmm. That seems . . . somehow wrong, doesn’t it?”

  I gulped a swig of the heavily creamed tea that George had handed me when I came in the back door. “Maybe, but I’m not sure how it works. I get the impression that he can’t delay his departure.” Still careful about what I said about Drew’s profession, I continued. “George, I’m pretty sure he’s part of some special operations group. When he’s called to duty, I think . . . well, I think important things are involved.” I could only imagine.

  “Oh, I know a little about the military world,” George said. “I understand if Drew doesn’t want to request a hardship discharge to leave the military permanently, but there are such things as emergency leaves. I’m sure his commander would understand. In fact, I would be surprised if Drew wasn’t ordered to take some extra time. I don’t understand why he wouldn’t want to, Becca. I think that needs further exploration.”

  “I agree. I know Sam is looking at it more closely, but I think I can ask Drew myself. As well as I don’t know him, I understand something about him that’s difficult to explain. If, as I hope, he isn’t the killer, he’s got an amazing sense of loyalty. He would never want to fall short of doing his duty. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes, but I still hope the police are looking closer. And I hope he isn’t the killer, too.” George tapped a fingertip at his chin. “But someone is, so tell me more about his family, the cousins you and Ian met.” George sat back and crossed his legs.

  “Okay. Well, Shawn, Mid, Sally, and Alan. I wish I knew more about them than I do. Hopefully, Sally will tell me more during the pedicure. My first impression was that . . . well, that Sally is an emotional wreck, Alan is annoying, and Shawn and Mid had perhaps had a discussion or an argument earlier in the day. They were silently communicating things to each other and to Alan. Did you see that, Ian?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know that I’d put much into it. They’re a family, and families create their communication patterns. Maybe that’s the way they normally behave.”

  “What about Alan? Did he bug you as much as he bugged me?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Tell me why he bugged you, Becca. Give me the details,” George said.

  “It was more than the dinner. I ran into him today, too.” I hadn’t yet told Ian about my day, so I replayed the events for them both. Even though the pie delivery was legitimate, I made sure to emphasize how Alan’s appearances seemed wrong somehow, as though he was trying to be sneaky but wasn’t good at it, but I wasn’t sure they agreed. However, they both enjoyed the adventure with the cat at Jeanine’s house.

  “Well, coincidentally, I’m making my famous quiche Jeanine for dinner tonight. Does Sam think she had something to do with Madeline’s murder?” George asked when he stopped laughing about the cat’s escape from the chicken coop. Once George had been introduced to Jeanine’s fresh eggs, he refused to purchase eggs anywhere else. He had also become a quiche expert, his quiche Jeanine (quiche Lorraine) becoming everyone’s favorite.

  “He doesn’t know what to think at this point. Her behavior is odd, more odd than normal even for Jeanine. I know he’d like to talk to her, and I think he’s concerned about her. I know I am.” Keeping my earlier promise, I didn’t tell them what Allison had shared with me about the foreclosure letter.

  “Plus, and I hate to be too graphic . . .” Ian said.

  “Oh, please do,” George requested seriously.

  “Well, Jeanine might be strong but she’s little. I have no idea how she could have handled Madeline and done what was done to her.”

  “Gracious, you didn’t tell me what was done to her. Don’t leave anything out.”

  Between the two of us, we told George about the state in which we’d found Madeline. The scarf around her neck, the wounds on her hands, the blood, the position her body was in, and the gruesome details of her gray skin and bulging eyes. It didn’t make for good predinner conversation, but George insisted, and we indulged him.

  “I knew Madeline. A little,” George said when we finished. “I bank at Central, as so many of us do. There aren’t many choices in Monson, and Central has always been the biggest bank around. Plus, years ago, when they got into the mortgages, it was so nice to do business locally. When everyone seemed to have money, and mortgages were both easy to get and easy to give, Madeline was sort of a local superstar. But over the last few years I know she’s done some pretty vicious things. She was a businesswoman first and foremost—oh, I’m not trying to defend her, but I do think her reputation was partly because of the times we’re in. I don’t know if Jeanine had any sort of money difficulties”—I kept my expression neutral—“but when their livelihood is threatened, some people have been known to do desperate things . . .”

  “Go on,” I prompted him to continue.

  George tapped at his chin again, and his eyes grew bigger behind his glasses. “Madeline was killed in her home, in her bedroom, in the middle of the day. Becca, dear, that doesn’t sound like the actions of a mere customer, someone Madeline knew impersonally and had angered. In fact, the place she was killed and the way she was killed sound very personal, indeed.”

  “So, you think it was someone she knew well, a family member?”

  “If I were an investigator, which clearly I’m not, that’s where I’d be looking most closely. I don’t think a customer would have sought her out at her home. I think a customer would have done the crime at or around the bank.”

  I thought George made some good points. I hoped even more that Sally would shed some light on her family’s dynamics.

  “Another question, Becca, dear,” George said as he folded his hands on his lap.

  “Yes?”

  “What about Linda?”

  “What about her?”

  “You know what I’m asking. Do you think Linda could have killed Mad
eline? Lord knows she had plenty of good reasons. From what you’ve said, Linda’s future mother-in-law was not making the relationship easy.”

  “No, I don’t think Linda killed Madeline. I don’t think Linda killed anyone.” I didn’t mean to sound so emphatic. Ian put his hand on my knee. “Sorry, George, but Linda doesn’t have that in her.”

  “I understand your loyalty, but Ian told me that Linda left Bailey’s shortly after Madeline caused the scene. Do you know where she went?”

  I hesitated and looked at Ian, who kept his face expressionless.

  “Linda said that she and Drew were together all afternoon.”

  George was silent for a long, thoughtful moment before he said, “I don’t suppose someone else can vouch for them?”

  “Not that I know of.” I didn’t want to share details about Linda’s bright blushing with George.

  “Hmm. Well, the good news is that Sam Brion is a topnotch police officer. Perhaps he and his cohort will move quickly and solve the crime so you can fulfill your duty as . . . what did Ian tell me you were calling yourself? As a Number One or something.”

  I smiled. George had changed the tone of the conversation and purposely avoided emphatically pointing out Linda and Drew’s weak alibis because he was a gentleman first and foremost. He didn’t want to risk hurting my feelings or Ian’s feelings by showing how clear it was that Linda and Drew should probably both be considered prime suspects in the murder of Madeline Forsyth. I appreciated his effort.

  “Well, I do believe it’s time for dinner and some lively discussion about you two and your trip to Iowa.” George stood and, with Hobbit by his side, made his way to the kitchen. Even though it was probably rude, Ian and I had frozen in place on the couch. Fortunately, Ian figured out what to say next.

  “I, uh, mentioned that I was inviting you to visit my family. I might have mentioned that you hadn’t agreed to go quite yet. Sorry about that awkward moment.”

  “It wasn’t so bad—more surprising than awkward.”