“Does she need a ride to the bus?” I asked.
“No. My aunt sent her money for a taxi, too. Mom doesn’t know what’s going on, but she’s happy about it.”
That seemed to be my opening, so I jumped right in. “So why aren’t you happy about it?”
Petra shook her head. “Oh, Lorry. Quit.” She walked back to her office. When she got there, she said, “She was packing as we talked, and the taxi arrived before we got off the phone. She’s already on her way to Coyote Moon to catch the bus. It all happened so quick.”
Then I heard her clicking away at her keyboard, so I said nothing more.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I SAT AT my desk thinking. Getting motivated to work felt difficult with everything still so unsettled. So I thought about the murder and my list of suspects. Almost everybody made it to my list of suspects! But I still had more to go. Douglas Gates was the only person on the council I hadn’t talked to yet. Off the council, I still needed to talk to Russ Tabor and the son of the deceased, Todd Fenton. The son stayed a viable suspect, especially because he kept thinking that I did it! And Russ Tabor just felt suspicious to me.
Before I made an effort to see any of those three people, I thought a trip to the scene of the crime might be a good idea. If I could get a good idea of where everyone was, it might help figuring out where they weren’t—murdering Christopher Fenton.
The Arizona sun had melted most of the snow off the roads, but—at least the one in front of the historical society—still appeared slushy, so it surprised me when I heard a motorcycle pull up in front and park. And it surprised me more to see that it was Mason. So much for my assumption that he and Petra broke up.
He burst into the door without even stamping his feet and walked straight past me to Petra’s office.
“Hello, Mason,” I said as I felt the breeze when he passed.
“Lorry,” he said without stopping.
Next thing I knew Petra was crying, and Mason was crooning, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Petra, I’m sorry.”
What was he sorry about? Had he screwed around on her or something? My mind always went there because that was my first husband’s favorite trick. But I’m not going there. Where I was going was to the Town Offices to look around. And then the phone rang.
“Rutledge Historical Soc—oh, hi, Billy . . . Do what? . . . How’d that happen? . . . Won’t I get stuck, too? . . . All right. I’ll leave right now. . . . Love you, too. . . . Bye.”
Billy wanted me to go to the new house and pick up Hugo on the way. Poor Hugo had tried to drive through the snow in his Cadillac and had gotten stuck. Billy assured me that my all-wheel drive Rav4 would not get stuck. So I packed up everything I needed, which wasn’t much, and walked past Petra and Mason standing up by her desk and hugging. Petra stood there still crying and Mason comforted her by rubbing his hand over her back. Since Mason had everything under control, I walked by without saying a word.
When I got to the back door, I stooped down to pick up Bingo. No sense in his feet getting all dirty and then jumping into my car. I stepped out the door and saw Christa leaning against her car, smoking. She waved, grinned at me, and held up her half-smoked cigarette. “Still trying to quit!” Then she dropped it, smashed it into the ground, and got into her car.
I had to give her credit for trying, even though it didn’t look like she was succeeding. Now that I knew her better, I’d have to check out her shop. Maybe it wasn’t as juvenile as I had assumed. And you don’t need to remind me about assume. I know all about what it does to “u” and “me.”
Opening the door of my car, I opened my arms and let Bingo jump in. He moved over to the passenger seat like a regular person. What a smart boy! Then I slid in beside him and started the car.
We buzzed down the slushy alley and made a left on Bridge Street and another left on High. I hoped Billy was right about me not getting stuck on the road. With all the snow melting, it seemed like a real possibility. It didn’t surprise me that Hugo’s Cadillac got stuck.
We drove past the barrier and onto the dirt road. Billy was right; my Rav4 drove through it with no problem at all. Less than fifteen minutes later, we came upon Hugo’s Cadillac off to the side of the road. The back tire was deep in the mud. It looked like he had tried to gun the engine to get it unstuck, which only got him more stuck.
I pulled up beside him figuring he would see me and jump in the car. That didn’t happen. He didn’t see me. His head rested on the steering wheel. I would have thought he had hurt himself except for two things. One, Billy had said nothing about an injury. And two, I could see his shoulders were shaking. Poor Hugo looked like he was crying.
I didn’t know what to do. If I honked, it might scare him and make him feel even worse than he already did. If I got out of the car and knocked on the window, he would know that I knew he was crying. What a dilemma. Before too much longer, Bingo stood up on his hind legs and looked out the window. When he recognized who it was, he barked. I don’t know how Hugo heard him with both windows—his and mine—closed, but he looked up, and that’s all it took. He smiled a half smile, slid out his door, locked his car, and stepped into mine.
He looked at me unashamedly, not even trying to hide the tear stains on his cheeks. “Thank you for doing this, Lorry. I’m afraid I got myself into more trouble than I had anticipated.”
“No problem, Hugo. For you, the world!” Then I patted him on the hand.
Tears started rolling down his face, and Bingo jumped up to lick them off. Hugo let him.
“I miss her so much.”
Before I could engage my mouth filter, I said, “She just left yesterday.”
Hugo nodded. “I know. But we’ve never spent even one night apart. That was the first time. I don’t know what I’ll do without her tonight. Last night, I stayed up the whole night pacing and worrying about her.”
As if in answer to his silent prayer, his phone rang. Not even looking at who the caller was, he pressed the button and said eagerly, “Martha? . . . Oh,” he said, disappointment apparent in his voice, “Hi, Mason.”
Mason? I wondered. Why would Mason be calling Hugo? I only needed to listen to find out the answer to that question.
“Yes, sure she can stay, as long as she wants. I only have the one couple that will be here two more nights. I’ve cancelled everyone else. I tried to cancel them, but— . . . oh, okay. . . . she could? That would be wonderful, Mason! I would appreciate that so much! Wow! Truly an answer to my prayers.”
I think I just said that. Or thought it, anyway. This conversation got more and more interesting.
Hugo continued, “She’s welcome to go there anytime. The key is under the mat in the front. Her room will be at the top of the stairs and then right to the one with the bathroom. . . . Yes, I think it’s awesome, too . . . You’re welcome, and Mason, thank you! Bye.”
He turned toward me, the tears dried and his face ear to ear with a big smile. “Petra is going to stay at our bed and breakfast and take care of the guests, so I can stay with Martha. I’m so happy!”
“Hugo, that’s great! Do you know why Petra is staying there and not at her own house?” Inquiring minds wanted to know.
But he ignored me. I don’t think it was deliberate—his mind was on a different track.
“No more nights apart!” He clapped his hands. “Martha and me,” he sang, “happy as can be! K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
“Very cute, Hugo.” This was getting a little too mushy for me. It was bad enough having to watch Petra and Mason kiss, but Hugo and Martha? Kill me now!
“I’ve been a bloody wreck, but Martha has been fine.” He put his hand briefly on my shoulder. “By the way, Lorry, bloody is a British expression. The couple we have staying with us now are British, and they use it all the time. I kind of like it.”
It made me happy the way everything had worked out for Martha and Hugo. I didn’t like Martha having to stay there alone with that Charlie man.
“In fact,” Hug
o continued, “maybe Martha is having too good of a time. She told me all about Charlie and what a good time they’re having together. I told her I was worried that she’d leave me for a younger man.” He chuckled.
His laugh was good to hear, but two things about that comment bothered me. Could I be that wrong about Charlie? Martha liked him? Well, that wasn’t strange, because Martha liked everybody. That’s the way Martha was. She would like a serial killer if she got to know one. So, no, I’m not going to take Martha’s fondness for Charlie as a reason to stop disliking him. I’d need a better reason than that.
The other thing that bothered me was Hugo said Charlie was a younger man. Younger? I thought he was the same age or older than Hugo and Martha! Maybe it was being out in the sun or smoking or drinking that caused him to look like that. Ah, well. Color me humbled—but I still didn’t like him.
By this time, Hugo was looking around enjoying himself. Now he looked at me with concern showing on his face. “How much farther? If I had known the ranch was this far out, I would have been even more worried about her.”
“The only ones who know where she is are me and Billy and Wichita. No one else has a clue. So she’s safe.”
“All the same, I’m glad Charlie is with her.”
Indeed. “I don’t think I’ve passed the turnoff,” I said looking around me at the road.
“I haven’t seen a left turnoff since you picked me up, so I don’t think so.”
And like magic, the turnoff appeared. Just like downtown. But not downtown. Oh, you know what I mean.
I turned onto Sylvan Way and a minute later drove through the entrance to the ranch and pulled into the driveway.
The front door opened and Martha stepped out, her hands on her cheeks and tears streaming from her eyes. Hugo opened the door, and before I had a chance to tell him to be careful because of the ice, he had jumped out of the car and into her arms.
There was no ice. Someone had cleared all the snow off the driveway and the walkway in front of the house. I didn’t think Martha would have done that. Snow could be heavy work. Could it have been Charlie?
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
AFTER WAVING GOODBYE to the lovebirds, I began the long trek back to the historical society. As much as I wanted to go over my suspect list, I felt I had to give some thought to what just happened. Hugo and Martha, separated for one day, acted like they had been apart for months. It was like when you left a dog for a few minutes, and when you return, the dog acts like you’ve been gone for ages. Bingo does that.
I hoped Billy and I would still be that much in love in forty years. For my part, I knew I would love him until the end, but for his part, I wasn’t so sure. Because you never know. And that fear, if you want to call it that, had nothing to do with Billy but had to do with me. Billy had never given me any reason to doubt his love or the duration of his love. Eddie had loved me once, too. At least I think he did—unless he was just with me because of my money—or rather my mother’s money. And that was a distinct possibility. So if Eddie never really loved me, it made me feel a lot better about Billy never stopping loving me—if that makes any sense. It does to me.
The other thought banging around in my head was Charlie shoveling the snow for Martha. No one else could have done it. And I didn’t think it was Charlie’s job. He didn’t really have a job; his only responsibility was taking care of the horses if Billy wasn’t around to do it. Horses and snow were two separate things. He had no reason to do that except, dare I say it, being nice.
Before I get too carried away with accolades for Charlie, let me reconsider. There were good guys who did bad things. Just like there were bad guys who did good things. Example: a serial killer who treated his mother well. So the only logical explanation—and I try to be logical, though I don’t often succeed—was that Charlie was a downright disagreeable old guy who could do good things. That didn’t mean he would do them all the time, but occasionally, he could do them.
After going back and forth over all these thoughts and wondering if I was right or wrong, or maybe even both, I arrived back at the historical society. As I drove by the front, I didn’t see Mason’s motorcycle. Good. I wouldn’t feel as weird going inside if Mason had left. Petra was a whole ‘nother story. What was going on with her? I had no idea and couldn’t even make a wild guess. Looking back, I guess I should have known. But how could I?
Parking in the back, I picked Bingo up again and unlocked the back door to the society. Instead of saying anything, I walked quietly up to the front. With all this weirdness going on, I felt like I was walking on eggshells around Petra, and believe me, that wasn’t a good feeling. It used to be a way of life for me. And it wasn’t a good feeling at all.
When I walked past Petra’s desk, she wasn’t there. She must have gone off with Mason somewhere. I couldn’t blame her for that, as I had been gone most of the morning myself. Moving toward the front door to change the closed sign to open, I realized Petra hadn’t bothered—or remembered—to flip the sign when she left. At least she had locked the door. Opening it and gazing outside, I saw that the only footprints in the melting snow were my own big-booted ones, and two other sets leading to the street where Mason had parked his motorcycle. And the only track in the street was from Mason’s motorcycle.
So it didn’t matter that she didn’t flip the sign. Not that it would anyway, if the place was closing down and turning into a mall. I hoped that wouldn’t happen. And that reminded me to call Bryan again to see if he had made any progress with the project I had given him.
Sitting down at my desk, I checked my email, and found nothing of any interest. I didn’t feel like going upstairs and doing more scanning. What I really felt like doing was going over the suspect list for the murder. I should write it all down instead of trying to keep it in my teensy-weensy brain. Isn’t that how it works? Big butt, small brain. No, I guess what it really means is cold hands warm heart. I felt my hands, but it’s difficult to tell if your own hands are cold. Go ahead. Try it. I dare you.
I opened the center drawer to my desk—which was full to overflowing with stuff I needed to sift through, throw out, or organize—and grabbed the nearest pen. Then I opened the middle drawer on the left side to pull out a pad of paper. Ready to start, I sat there staring at the empty page. Where should I begin? Who popped out as the top of my suspect list? Who was at the bottom? Everyone was at the top, because I hadn’t eliminated anyone yet! So I started in alphabetical order, using first names.
Anthony Petrelli. Sad to say, I had ruined any chance of finding out if he had an alibi, but I knew one thing for sure. Anyone who is that vehement that someone else had done the murder was trying to deflect guilt from himself. And that goes double for anyone who thought Martha could commit murder.
Brent Lindsay. He had a point in his favor for not attending the meeting that was to condemn and fire Martha. And he got another point for calling what they had planned to do to Martha “dirty work.” And I appreciated a man who calls ‘em like he sees ‘em, because I’m like that.
The strike—and it felt like a big strike—against him was how he ended the conversation. His body language, the way he walked away, and saying so flatly that he didn’t know who did it, but he knew it wasn’t him. It had an air of guilt associated with it. Not that I knew anything about body language, but I’m a good guesser. I think I am, anyway.
Christa Hawthorne. She could be at the bottom of the list because she voted for the sale, and like Brent Lindsay, she had not attended the meeting to oust Martha from her job. The main thing about Christa—I know this is silly—but how comfortable she looked with a gun in her hands. Granted, it was all in my imagination, and granted that Elizabeth looked almost as comfortable. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to eliminate Christa off the suspect list. So she would stay. Also, she had told Billy she was in the bathroom but hadn’t seen Martha. That was peculiar. Maybe even more so because Russell Tabor said he saw her coming out of the bathroom which verified her alibi. K
eep her on! Take her off! Keep her on! It was all so confusing.
A needle of doubt shot through me. What if Martha lied about being in the bathroom? I had never considered that before. In all the time I’d known her, she had never told one lie. But I’ve known her less than a year. And if someone tells a lie and you don’t find out it’s a lie, then how would you know? I shook my head. No. I refused to go there. I still believed in the truth of Martha’s words and her complete and total innocence. Yes, for sure. I believed Martha.
That brings us to Elizabeth Conroy. Oh, no, wait, I’m skipping Douglas Gates. Shoot. That made sense, though, since I knew nothing about him. I needed to go see him soon. Kasey said he was a drinker. That should make him easy enough to find—check the bars.
Now for Elizabeth Conroy. I knew Billy didn’t think she did it—not from anything he said, but from the sound of his voice when he talked to her at the secret council meeting. She said Billy had proven no one innocent, yet, including Martha. And she said Martha had a motive and could have done the killing, and she even had me considering it! Imagine!
Elizabeth was convincing. No wonder she had been principal of the high school for so long. She said the murderer could be anyone—including her. Maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe it was her. There was the vision of her with the gun in her hand and looking pleased. Although that didn’t strike me so much as including herself in who the murderer could be.
Joe Stoddard, the mayor, doesn’t count because he was with me when the murder occurred. I can count him out for sure. I think.
Paul Gallagher was a conundrum for me. My gut feeling was that he didn’t do it. He had said he was at the bulletin board with Elizabeth. Yet Elizabeth never mentioned seeing Paul there, although she said she was there. And him saying he planned to quit the High Council as soon as Billy solved the murder, because if he quit before that it would make him look guilty. Anyone afraid of looking guilty might be guilty. He stayed on the list.
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