Jo moved over to other framed photos. These were groups of people in evening clothes, posed in the country club’s dining room.
“Those were for the Muscular Dystrophy Ball,” Tracy explained. “All the big-wigs were there. It’s a huge fund-raiser.”
“Yes, I recognize Mayor Kunkle from pictures in the paper, and Bob Gordon. Oh, and there’s a couple of my workshop ladies, Loralee Phillips—doesn’t she look nice—and Deirdre Patterson and her husband, the state senator.”
“Uh-huh. They always show up for those things. And there’s Bethanne, over here. I’d hardly recognize her out of her tennis togs, but she looks great, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, she does. She supports the muscular dystrophy cause?”
“Oh, she didn’t have to pay for those dinners. Those tickets cost something like two hundred a plate. Mr. Gordon wanted her to be there so he could introduce her around as the club’s pro.”
“I see. A little business promotion.”
“Yeah.”
“Did she go as Bob Gordon’s date?”
“Oh, no! Mr. Gordon always took his wife.” Tracy pointed to a well-dressed, round-figured woman on one of the photos. “That’s her there.”
Jo looked more closely and saw a smiling woman holding firmly to her husband’s arm as they posed for the camera. Jo imagined that grip never loosening as Bob Gordon introduced his tennis pro around the room.
“So Bethanne attended on her own? No boyfriend?”
“None that I knew of. There was some talk, well, never mind.”
“What?”
Tracy flushed. “It’s not important. Just more of Kyle’s crazy imaginings. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Especially with Bethanne so miserable now, with what happened to her best friend.”
Jo longed to hear more, but Tracy’s face had closed down. Her sympathy for her coworker’s pain was not going to allow her any leeway toward negative gossip. All Jo could do for now was file away the comment for reexamination in the future.
“Yes, I’m sure she must feel terrible over Genna,” Jo said.
“Oh, definitely, especially since she blames herself!”
“She does? How?”
“Oh, you didn’t know? It was Bethanne’s dog that Genna was walking! Genna wouldn’t have been out at all if Bethanne had come home early enough to take Mojo out herself.”
“Mojo?” Charlie, who had been silent until now, yelped. “Her dog’s name is Mojo? I thought it was one of those little yappy types, you know, a Toto. The kind people call Muffin, or Pookie, or something. Why’d she call it Mojo?”
Tracy looked confused for a moment, then laughed. “Oh, you’re thinking of that guy that looks like a Sumo wrestler or something, on, on, what’s that show?”
She and Charlie batted around the names of a few television shows, arguing in a friendly fashion over which one was the right one, but Jo didn’t care much what the little dog was called. What had struck her, and she was sure would strike Charlie as well very soon, was that Genna strongly resembled Bethanne and was out at night walking Bethanne’s dog. Had Bethanne, in fact, been the intended target, not Genna?
It seemed very possible, and if so, that would change everything.
Chapter 21
Jo had more on her mind than wreath making as her workshop group gathered once again for their next project. She wondered what might be in their thoughts as well, since they had become nearly as involved as she with this entire mess. You’d never guess to look at their faces, however, as one by one they filed through her door, smiling ingenuously and chattering on things as innocuous as the recent spurt of warm weather and how it might affect their gardens’ mums. It began to lull Jo, at least for the moment, into the pleasant feeling that life in Abbotsville was simple and serene, and the most difficult problem facing her was how to present tonight’s project.
Aware the feeling wouldn’t last long, though, Jo gathered her supplies and called the group to order, after first popping open a soda from the cooler kept well stocked with a variety of drinks for the sessions. Some of the others had already helped themselves to their favorites.
“Tonight, ladies, we’re going to make this spring wreath,” she paused as they ah-ed delightedly, “and I have a variety of materials lined up here for you.”
“I want to hang my wreath on my front door,” Javonne said. “But Harry just painted our door red—which I love—but those pink flowers you have on yours won’t work for me. Can I change them?”
“Absolutely. What I have here is just the prototype. It can be adjusted any way you like. Color is the easiest.”
“Your wreath turned out great!” Deirdre said, reminding Jo that she had seen it at Jo’s house before it was finished, when Jo had fixed her bracelet. “I don’t want to change a thing, except maybe I’ll hang a tag on mine saying, ‘Handmade by Deirdre Patterson.’ It’ll impress everyone to pieces.”
Ina Mae and Loralee agreed they liked Jo’s prototype, and Jo launched into the step-by-step instructions, which included wrapping ribbon about the grapevine base, making a multilooped bow, and more. The women happily got to work. As Jo expected, Ina Mae was the one to bring up the subject of murder.
“Well, Jo,” she asked, “what’s new on the investigation?” Jo noticed that the group had become so comfortable with the topic that they barely glanced up from their projects. The interest, though, was clearly there, as the chatter quieted down for her answer. Jo told them about her meeting with Hank Schroder.
“Oooh, he sounds verrrry interesting,” Loralee said, her eyes flashing.
“Agreed,” Ina Mae put in.
“I’d want to kill Kyle myself if he played tricks like that on me,” Javonne said, and the others nodded.
“Plus, Hank Schroder has a connection to poor Genna through his ex-wife,” said Loralee. “And he pretty much admitted he hated the entire family!”
“Well,” Jo said, “he didn’t put it quite that strongly, more dislike than actual hatred.”
“People always try to soften it when they can’t help but blurt out their feelings. He may have said ‘dislike,’ but I’ll guarantee he meant ‘hate.’”
The door bell jingled as a customer came in, and the group clammed up. Since Carrie was off tonight, Jo left to take care of the woman, who, it turned out, simply needed additional yarn to finish a knitting project. Jo found her the matching lot color, rang it up, and was soon back with the workshop.
“I also spoke with Tracy,” she said, reaching for her soda and taking a sip. “She’s the girl who worked with Kyle at the tennis desk.”
“Oh, yes, I remember,” Ina Mae said. “What did you learn from her this time?”
“Something quite interesting. Genna, it turns out, shared an apartment with Bethanne Fowler, the tennis pro at the country club.”
“Oh?” Ina Mae looked less than impressed.
“I guess you’ve never seen Bethanne Fowler, but there was a picture of her at the club. She and Genna look enough alike to be sisters—same height and coloring, similar hairstyle.”
“Oh!”
“And,” Jo continued, “it turns out that the dog Genna was walking that night was actually Bethanne’s.”
“Oh.” Ina Mae’s face turned very solemn.
“I don’t get it. What does that mean?” Javonne asked.
“It means, dear,” Ina Mae explained, “that if Genna was pushed down that cliff the poor girl might have been mistaken in the dark for her roommate Bethanne.”
“But I thought we were focused on Pete, Genna’s boyfriend,” Deirdre protested. “You told us how angry he could get, and how jealous—over Genna, not Bethanne.”
“Pete has an alibi for the night Genna was killed,” Ina Mae said.
“Except,” Loralee jumped in, “I don’t consider it an ironclad alibi. He’s still a suspect in my book.”
“An alibi?” Deirdre asked.
“Pete was working late, with another mechanic, that night,” Jo said.
“Oh! But you don’t believe it, Loralee?”
“No, I don’t. Not for a minute. I think he may have slipped out. Or maybe this other mechanic is covering for him.” Loralee jabbed the stems of the spring flowers into her wreath fiercely, making Jo wonder whose face she might be seeing in its center.
The ladies hashed over the points Jo had brought up—Hank Schroder’s motive, Bethanne Fowler’s dog, Pete Tober’s alibi—while trimming their wreaths at the same time. Clear evidence of the separation of right-brain, left-brain activities, Jo thought, as their creativity carried on in the midst of all those gritty thoughts.
Her wreath finished, Ina Mae began to tidy up her area. “I have to leave early tonight,” she explained. “I’m expecting a call from one of my daughters who’s traveling in Japan, and I don’t want to miss it.”
There was a flurry of interest and questions about the trip, and Loralee, who had ridden with Ina Mae, gathered up her things as well. Javonne and Deirdre were still putting the final touches on their wreaths as the other two bid them all a good night and took off. Javonne, wiring her bow in place, got back to the murders.
“I find that very disturbing, what Ina Mae said about Genna being mistaken for Bethanne.”
“Yes,” Jo agreed. “I plan to talk to Bethanne about it as soon as I can. She hasn’t been answering her phone, so I’ll just drive over to her place.”
“That poor girl,” Deirdre said, shaking her head. “She’s probably not answering her phone because she’s devastated. Do you think you should bother her with this right now?”
“That’s right,” Javonne agreed. “After all, it’s just a guess. Maybe she doesn’t need to hear this on top of all she’s dealing with right now.”
Jo shook her head. “I hate to add to her distress, but I think it’s important enough for her to be aware of as soon as possible.”
Javonne nodded, then adjusted her final flower sprig and held up her wreath. “There! What do you think?”
Jo looked at the color scheme Javonne had chosen—white flowers and green ivy, topped with a green and white plaid ribbon that had a touch of red. “I think that will look spectacular on your red door. Did you remember to tuck in all the wire ends, so they won’t scratch the paint?”
“Absolutely,” Javonne said, grinning. “It took Harry long enough to finally paint the door, and I’m not about to mess it up in any way. But this,” she held up her wreath proudly, “will be a crowning touch, after the Christmas wreath we made last time comes down, that is. Well,” she said, glancing at the clock, “time to get on home.”
“Yes, I’m done here too,” Deirdre said.
Jo was commenting on Deirdre’s creation when the door jingled for a late-arriving customer.
“Bye, ladies,” Javonne called as she sailed past them.
Jo looked over and was startled to see Hank Schroder standing there, looking as uncomfortable as he glanced around at the flowers and yarns as if he had accidentally stepped into a ladies’ lingerie shop. He wore the same green overalls she had seen him in before, with a few new additions of grass stains and streaks of dried mud.
“Mr. Schroder,” she greeted him. “What a surprise.”
Deirdre’s head popped up at hearing the name.
“Uh, yeah. I came about that nephew of yours. The phone number he gave me was kinda scribbled, and I couldn’t make it out right. Got a pizza place, instead. One of my crew dropped out today—he probably knew I was going to fire him soon, so he quit. Anyway, there’s an opening for after school and Saturdays, so if the kid wants the job, tell him to get in touch with me. He struck me as pretty reliable.”
“Yes, I think he is.” Jo wasn’t sure what to say next since Charlie didn’t really want the job, so she simply said, “I’ll pass the word on to him.”
“Okay, good.” Schroder caught sight of the soda cans still scattered on the workshop table. “Say, I just came from work, and I’m wrung out. Can I buy one of those from you while I’m here?” He reached into his pocket for change.
“Oh, please,” Jo said, waving away his offer to pay, “help yourself to whatever you’d like in the cooler. They’re complimentary.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Schroder pulled his hand from his pocket and stomped over.
Deirdre whispered to Jo, “I’ll hang around until he’s gone,” then, in a stage voice announced, “Well, I don’t know what’s taking my husband so long. He said he’d be here at 8:45 to pick me up. He should be here any minute, though. With his big brother, Jeb.”
Jo winced, thinking Schroder, who was not a stupid man, would surely pick up on the purpose of that announcement. Why not add that the “brothers” would arrive packing hunting rifles, with spares in the trunk? Still, she couldn’t complain. There was something about the man showing up out of the blue that made Jo uneasy.
Schroder, though, after shuffling around the cooler a bit, pulled out an icy Coke can, popped it open, and poured half of it down his throat. He wiped his mouth, muffled a burp, and looked around.
“Nice place you got here.”
“Thank you.”
The phone rang, and Jo reached for it. The caller, however, needed to speak with Carrie about a knitting problem, and Jo suggested she check back the next day.
“Well, you tell the kid to give me a call,” Schroder said, moving toward the door. “Or to just come on over.”
“I will.” Then, feeling the need to give Charlie an out, added, “I’ll tell him to get in touch with you either way.” Schroder shot her a look, and she explained. “The twins came down with the chicken pox. I’m not exactly sure if Charlie’s had it yet or not, so he might not be ready to work for a while.”
“Well, I hope so for his sake. I need someone now. If he can’t, I’ll have to call someone else.” He held up the near-empty soda can. “Thanks for the drink.”
Jo nodded, and watched him leave the shop, feeling a mixture of guilt and relief as she did.
As the door closed behind him, Deirdre asked, puzzled, “Charlie? Is that Carrie’s son?”
“Yes, but forget the part about the chicken pox and the twins. All figments of my imagination.”
“Oh, I wondered. You certainly think fast on you feet, don’t you? Here, let me help you clean up; then we can walk each other to our cars.” Deirdre picked up her soda can and shook it lightly, and, finding it empty, tossed it in the trash. “You done with yours?”
Jo, her throat having gone dry after the last few minutes, was pleased to find hers still about a third full. She drank thirstily, then added it to the bag Deirdre was filling with other cans and trimming debris.
“Actually,” Jo said, gathering up the protective paper from the table, “I have a little more to do before I close up here. But thanks. I don’t think we have to worry about Mr. Schroder. I saw his pickup drive safely away.”
“Scruffy-looking man,” Deirdre said with a grimace. “Well, if you’re sure you’re all right, I’ll get going then.”
Jo walked Deirdre to the door and waited until she saw her wave from inside her car. Then she locked the door and cleared the cash register. She checked a few odds and ends in the stockroom, then turned out all the lights and headed to her car, carrying along the trash bag she and Deirdre had filled to toss in the Dumpster.
The streets of Abbotsville were at their usual quiet, post-9 P.M. state, which Jo often savored on the drive home, usually opting to listen to a little soft jazz on the radio. Tonight she felt keyed up, though, as she started her ignition. Was it from going over all those points of the murder with the group? Or from the unexpected appearance of Hank Schroder at the end of the night? In any event, she didn’t feel like going straight home yet, and so she turned right instead of left at the corner.
Jo headed to Highpoint Road, thinking she would drive past the place Genna had fallen to her death. She wanted to see just how dark it was at this time of night. She and Charlie had been there during
daylight, and she hadn’t noticed how many streetlights there were or how close they were to the spot.
Jo stopped at a red light on the way, the lone car except for one other passing in the opposite direction. As she waited, her stomach gave a surprising painful twist, enough to make her wince. It eased, and when the light turned green, she pulled ahead.
She thought of Hank Schroder and his appearance at the shop, and it suddenly occurred to her to wonder how he had known where to find her. Jo didn’t remember mentioning anything to him about her shop. She turned onto Highpoint, and, as she did, came up with a possible answer. He could have asked Bob Gordon, of course, or anyone of half a dozen people at the country club who knew she was setting up the craft show. It seemed, though, a lot of trouble to go to just to locate and hire another crew member. Had Charlie impressed him that much?
Jo’s stomach suddenly became a caldron of pain. She groaned, and grabbed at it with one hand, while steering with the other. Her eyes blurred for a moment. A honk from behind startled her, and a glance into her rearview mirror showed a small refrigerated truck close behind her. She must have slowed down a lot, and here, near the Wildwood apartments, traffic had increased. The driver was obviously annoyed at being unable to pass her. She picked up speed, but at the first opportunity the truck pulled around her, zooming by. She was barely aware of it, though, since by this time she was struggling to keep from doubling over from extreme nausea.
A searing stab of pain suddenly shot through her abdomen, making her cry out, and her foot reflexively pressed down on the accelerator. At the same time, she was seeing double, and one of the lampposts she had gone to check on became two and then four as it or they loomed before her. Jo battled with the pain as well as the confusion, trying, in a few quick moments, to steer, but unsure where to point the car. Her brain told her to pull over and brake, but which way was “over,” and where was the brake?
Her stomach interrupted her brain, signaling extreme distress. Then there was noise, shock, and pain as her rusty Toyota came to a sudden, crashing stop.
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