Her hopes rose as she pulled into the parking lot and saw only two cars in an area that could hold twenty. Jo got out and began to walk rapidly, following a paved lane that wound past rhododendron and azalea plantings, all long past their bloom times and readying for the cold weather that was to come. A cool breeze hinted it was already on its way, and Jo pulled her light cardigan together more tightly and brushed back the dark bangs that had blown into her eyes. She came to a statue of a man in Civil War uniform and paused to check out the engraved sign at its base, while slowing down her breathing as best she could.
A white-haired man in gray shorts and T-shirt jogged by, puffing out a breathy “mornin’.” Jo returned the greeting, managing a stiff smile, then turned back to the bronze soldier. Brigadier General Jeremiah Boggsworth, she learned, scanning the sign, was a native son of Abbotsville, born in 1811. He had died during the War Between the States in 1862, not in a blaze of glory on the battlefield, unfortunately, but of infection caused by a rusty horseshoe nail. Poor General Boggsworth, Jo thought. Done in by an ignominious puncture. Not unlike Kyle. It was just her miserable luck that Kyle’s occurred in her craft shop.
Jo sighed, and pushed her hands into the pockets of her sweater. She moved on, running over the previous hour spent enduring Russ Morgan’s near-accusations. They continued to make her blood boil, but she realized her situation had grown even more serious. Morgan seemed determined to find that final link that would let him charge her with murder. She could almost hear the prosecutor’s words to the jury, as she sat trembling behind the defendant’s table:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I put it to you that what we have here is a cold-blooded murderer. This woman allowed nothing to stand in her way—not a husband whose death would bring her riches, nor a poor, struggling actor who happened to be witness to her . . .”
Her what? What did Russ Morgan think Kyle knew about her that she would be willing to murder him for? What was Niles hinting about her? Jo knew Niles could be unconscionable in his business dealings, but what would he stoop to, what lies would he tell or maybe even half-believe in a misguided attempt at family revenge? Did he truly believe Jo was guilty of his nephew’s murder?
Whatever was going on, it was clear Jo needed to find out the truth of what happened in her storeroom before some wild, devious theory was devised and then believed by one and all. Until now, she had been dabbling at investigation, humoring her crafting ladies and reassuring herself that she was doing something active. Now the stakes had been raised. Jo needed to find out who actually killed Kyle Sandborn, and find out fast, while she was still a free woman.
What exactly had she managed to dig up about Kyle? His coworkers at the country club hinted that he liked to poke into other people’s business and imagine wrongdoing on little evidence. Not unlike his Uncle Niles, Jo laughed grimly, then wondered: had she met Kyle in New York?
Jo thought back to her few visits to Niles’ consignment shop, on Broadway, north of Houston. There had always been people around such as sales clerks and customers looking for bargains. Occasionally he had introduced her as a jewelry designer, but she didn’t recall ever meeting a nephew. If it had happened, it had been a nonevent, a quick introduction in passing, something neither of them would remember. It boggled her mind that Niles was suddenly making such a point of it.
She moved on to the people at the Abbotsville Playhouse. Genna, the actress who would have played opposite Kyle if he’d lived, had a boyfriend who seemed to have been unhappy with that fact. This definitely bore investigation. Jo needed to talk to Genna.
A high-pitched screech jarred Jo out of her thoughts. She looked up, startled, and realized she had come to a small playground. A young mother stood beside her toddler, who was strapped into a baby swing, laughing delightedly. The mother’s arm pushed automatically as she simultaneously carried on a conversation with another young woman whose baby sat in a stroller.
How contented they look, Jo thought, feeling a flash of envy for those who appeared to have uncomplicated lives, filled with simple joys. She and Mike had occasionally discussed having children, but always ended up putting it off to some undefined time when things were “right.” Had that been the right or wrong decision, considering the turn her life had taken? She had since tried not to agonize over it. What was done was done, or perhaps not done, and she directed any surfacing maternal feelings toward Carrie’s two as the need arose.
The woman at the swing looked over and smiled, and Jo strolled in that direction, having wearied of her solitude. The toddler wiggled and pointed, along with more screeches, clearly signaling “I want out!” His mother complied and watched him dotingly as he ran to a nearby jungle gym and grabbed onto its lower bars, sidestepping on the packed mulch beneath.
Jo sat down on a nearby bench, tucked between two spruces and somewhat protected from the hair-tossing breeze. The toddler, apparently constitutionally unable to stay in one place for more than a minute or two, suddenly came careening toward Jo, and she caught him as he stumbled on a tree root.
“Whoops! Here you go,” she said, setting him back on his feet.
“Thank you,” his mother, a pretty blond-haired woman, called. She hurried over and sat on the other end of the bench. “Cory, when are you going to tire yourself out enough for a nap?” she asked with mock exasperation. She pulled a small bottle of apple juice out of her tote and handed it to her son, who immediately sank to the ground to suck at it.
“Hi, I’m Dawn,” she said, turning to Jo.
“I’m Jo. Looks like he keeps you pretty busy,” Jo said, glancing at Cory, whose round blue eyes gazed at her over his bottle.
Dawn nodded, grinning. “And to think I could hardly wait til he started walking. I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
Jo hesitated, glancing over at the second mother, who was placing her baby in the swing Cory had vacated. Should she identify herself as not only new in town but also proprietor of Jo’s Craft Corner? Would it worry Dawn to have her child so near a, a what? A murder suspect? No, word surely wouldn’t have gotten around yet. At worst, Jo was still only the unlucky woman who had found the body. If that frightened Dawn away, so be it. She enlightened her new acquaintance, whose eyes widened only briefly with recognition.
“I heard they still don’t know who did that to him,” Dawn said, quickly getting down to what interested her most.
“No, they don’t.”
“It’s so weird, a thing like that happening to someone you know.”
Jo’s gaze, which had wandered to Cory, darted back to Dawn. “Oh?”
“Well, not knew him, but, you know how it is. In a town this size, you always know someone who knows someone, so you feel connected.”
“Who do you know who knew him?”
“My cousin, Genna.”
“Really.” Jo tried to muffle signs of her interest. “Is she the girl I saw at the playhouse?”
“Yes! See what I mean? Everyone knows everyone here, one way or another. What did you see her in? Biloxi Blues?”
“No, I was at the rehearsal for the show they’re working on now, something to do with Rumpelstiltskin.”
“Oh, is that their next one? I didn’t know. What’s Genna’s part in it?”
“She has one of the leads, playing the spinner who pledges her firstborn to Rumpelstiltskin.”
Dawn grinned, and rolled her eyes at Cory. “Tempting idea, sometimes! Good for Genna, though, getting a part like that. Last time she played a prostitute.” Dawn giggled. “My aunt wasn’t delighted with that. Does she get to sing in this one?”
“There’s some music in it.” Jo thought back to the peculiar song she heard being rehearsed, and hoped whatever else there might be would fit the word “music” better. “I didn’t hear Genna sing, but I guess she might.”
“I hope so. She has a really nice voice.” Dawn reached over to button her son’s jacket, which the breeze had started to flap.
Jo asked, “Was Genna terribly upse
t over Kyle? I imagine they must have been close, I mean as fellow members of the playhouse troupe.”
“Well,” a cautious look crept over Dawn now, and she seemed to choose her words carefully, “she was upset, of course. I mean, it’s a horrible thing to happen to anyone. But she has plenty of support. There’s her family and friends. And Pete, her boyfriend.”
Jo noticed that Dawn looked away when she mentioned Pete, as though regretting having brought him up. “Does Genna live at home, then,” she pressed, “or do she and her boyfriend—”
“No, they don’t live together, not that Pete hasn’t tried to talk her into it. Genna has a roommate. They share a two-bedroom in those new Wildwood apartments, a really cool place.” Dawn began talking faster. “I wish they had been built when Jack and I were first looking for one. We’d move, but they cost more than where we are now, and we’re saving for a house. You know those houses over on . . .” Dawn chattered on, clearly much more comfortable with the new subject.
Jo waited for a pause, and, when Dawn drew a breath, jumped in with, “Yes, they do sound very nice. I was wondering, though, about Genna’s boyfriend. Did he—”
Dawn suddenly leaned down and grabbed her son’s bottle, pulling it from his mouth with a pop. Cory reacted with an indignant wail, and Dawn picked him up, explaining to Jo, “I can’t let him drink too much right now. I don’t have any extra diapers with me.” She consoled the toddler with a quick pat on his back, then turned him away from Jo. “Oh, look, Cory, there’s a squirrel!”
Cory’s wails stopped, and he wiggled to get down, taking off after the gray squirrel as soon as his feet hit the ground. Dawn picked up her tote, and turned to Jo.
“It’s been real nice talking to you,” she said, then hurried after Cory.
Well, that was interesting, Jo thought, her eyes still blinking with surprise as she watched her potential source distance herself.
She laughed ruefully. Wouldn’t it be handy to have a Cory to take along with her the next time Russ Morgan wanted to talk? Jo stood, giving up on any further conversation, and headed back toward her car, mulling over what had just happened. Something about Pete certainly made Dawn very uneasy. But what exactly? The only real information Dawn had shared was that Pete had tried to talk Genna into living with him. Which implied Genna had resisted for some reason. Hints and innuendoes. That seemed to be all Jo was able to gather. But then, that was also all Lieutenant Morgan had gathered on her.
Being reminded of her uniformed adversary began to stir the anger Jo thought she had managed to dispel, and she drew a deep breath. This would not do. If she had learned anything over the past year it was that emotions needed to be kept under control if she expected to accomplish anything. She came to the azalea plantings and snapped off a twig, rolling it rapidly between her hands in an effort to cool down, then began to pluck off its small leaves, one by one, until she realized what she was doing: the daisy petal game. He loves me, he loves me not.
Not quite appropriate here, she thought grimly, tossing the twig. There was certainly no question. Morgan loved her not, and she returned the feeling, in spades. Lieutenant Morgan obviously saw her as a cold-blooded murderer, and she in turn viewed him as the man working to send her to prison for life, or worse. With all those leading questions about her marriage, and their terrible implications, Morgan had shown himself to be a cold, callous, hardheaded man, and nothing whatsoever like her warm, openhearted Mike.
Why, then, she wondered, the thought bringing her to a stop, did she find herself so often thinking of one along with the other?
Chapter 12
Jo’s gaze swept over her ladies, gathered together for a stamping workshop. She was growing quite fond of them. Beyond their ongoing interest in crafts, she sensed a deeper concern for her and her dicey situation.
Once again Ina Mae sat directly across from Jo at the worktable, with Loralee right beside her. Javonne Barnett had arrived in a rush again, from her husband’s dental office, and Deirdre Patterson waited expectantly next to Loralee. Mindy Blevins was absent, presumably still sorting through her mounds of “twin” photographs back home.
“What are you going to teach us tonight, Jo?” Javonne asked, pulling off her multicolored silk scarf and tucking it safely into the handbag at her feet.
“Tonight, ladies,” Jo said, “you will enter the fascinating and endlessly creative world of stamping.” She caught Carrie’s eye, who was guiding her beginning knitters through their first sweater on the other side of the store, and grinned. “Our first project will be a beautiful, handmade thank-you card.”
Ina Mae hmmphed. “Maybe I’ll send it—self-addressed—to a certain relative who has yet to mention that gift I sent six months ago.”
“Oh, I know,” Loralee commiserated. “Thank-yous are just too much trouble for some people. Some young people.”
“I’ve always been extremely meticulous about thank-you notes,” Deirdre insisted. Jo wasn’t sure which age group Deirdre, a fortysomething, was putting herself in with that statement. “And I never, never send one by e-mail.”
“Oh, e-mail!” Ina Mae rolled her eyes. “I’d be drop-dead grateful for that at least. But we’re digressing, Jo. Please go on.”
Jo displayed and explained the basic tools of decorative stamping—rubber stamps, stamp pads, plain and novelty scissors, paper cutters, and more.
“I’m going to show you how to make this lovely card,” she said, holding it up and pausing as Loralee oohed, “and in the process teach you some of the skills to create your own designs. Now first, we will cut our dark blue paper, which has the delicious name of “Night of Navy,” to fit in this standard envelope when folded.”
The women watched as Jo measured and cut hers using the paper cutter, then followed suit. Jo next demonstrated how they could create a window effect by cutting a smaller white rectangle of paper to center over the dark blue, then four yet-smaller squares of blue to top that, two over two with the white framing them all, like window panes. All layers would be attached using double-sided tape.
“But first, before we cut the smaller blue squares, we will stamp them with these individual tree stamps, using white craft ink, which is a little thicker and whiter than regular ink. And when it’s all put together it will look like a view through a window on a snowy night.”
“Oh, I love it,” cried Javonne.
“Wait, what do I do with the white paper?” Deirdre asked, looking thoroughly befuddled.
Jo explained the process once more, and then a third time to Deirdre alone as the others got busy on their own cards. As Deirdre seemed to catch on, Jo strolled around the table, looking over shoulders as stamps thumped and papers were cut, ready to answer questions.
As she completed the round, Ina Mae looked up to ask, “Find out anything at the playhouse?”
Once again, four pairs of eyes looked up, curious for the answer. “Well,” Jo said, smiling, “I learned Rafe Rulenski doesn’t write very good music.”
“Jo-oh,” Javonne prompted.
“It’s true! He might be a good director, but I really think he has a tin ear.”
“Will you be doing anything for the production?” Deirdre asked.
“Yes, some of the costume jewelry, and maybe some odds and ends for the stage sets.”
“Great!”
“At cost. Or nearly so. But I’ll get a bit of publicity from it.”
“What did you learn about Kyle Sandborn?” Ina Mae persisted.
Jo shrugged, warning them it was very little, then told them what she and Charlie had picked up concerning the jealousy of Genna’s boyfriend, Pete. “It may turn out to be nothing, but it’s the strongest motive I’ve come across so far for Kyle’s murder. Genna’s cousin didn’t actually confirm the jealousy when I talked to her in the park, but I suspect she might have. She definitely didn’t have good feelings toward the boyfriend.”
“I think you’re on to something,” Deirdre said. “I remember, now that you mention it,
that Rafe Rulenski once complained about someone who might have been Pete. This was a few weeks ago at the fund-raising Thespian Ball. Alden and I were chatting with Rafe about the amount of scenery needed for Biloxi Blues, and he nearly turned purple. He said he had to have an entire section of a flat replaced because of damage caused by an actress’s boyfriend. The boyfriend claimed it was an accident, that he had lost his balance somehow and fallen through, but Rafe said the damage looked more like someone had kicked through it in a rage.”
“Oh my,” Loralee cried. “And that was Pete?”
“Rafe didn’t give a name,” Deirdre said as she carefully pressed her tree stamp on the blue paper, “but he did say this man didn’t like his girlfriend acting like a,” Deirdre hesitated, glancing over at Loralee and Ina Mae, “like a w-h-o-r-e.”
“Oh!” Loralee’s hand flew to her mouth.
“He must have meant Genna’s part in the play,” Jo said. “Her cousin told me she played a prostitute in the last show.”
“This boyfriend sounds jealous and controlling,” Ina Mae said, “and definitely someone worth looking into.”
“I agree,” Javonne put in.
“I’ll try to talk to Genna at the next rehearsal.”
Carrie left her two knitting students and came over for one of the sodas she and Jo kept stocked in a cooler. “Tell them about the police lieutenant, Jo,” she urged, popping open a diet Dr Pepper.
“What? Did he pull you in again, Jo?” Javonne asked.
“He firmly invited me in for a talk,” Jo corrected. She described what she had endured at the hands of Abbotsville’s finest, leaving out mention of Earnest C. Ainsworthy because of Carrie, who felt awful enough as it was over the disastrous result of her attempt to help. The group’s faces reflected much of the same indignation Jo had felt with Morgan.
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