The phone rang. Carrie answered it, and held it out to Jo. “It’s Deirdre Patterson.”
“Jo-oooh!” Jo heard Deirdre’s wail as she took the phone. “I just heard!” Deirdre exclaimed, causing Jo to wonder how the Abbotsville Gazette managed to survive. By the time that local newspaper hit the stands, its stories were ancient history. Abbotsville’s word-of-mouth was speedier than any printing press.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t stay longer,” Deirdre said.
“It wouldn’t have made any difference, Deirdre, believe me.” As Jo continued to try to placate Deirdre, she saw Javonne walk in the door, her eyes wide with concern, carrying a casserole dish. She set it on the counter and, seeing Jo on the phone, began jabbering excitedly with Ina Mae, Loralee, and Carrie. Jo covered one ear so she could hear Deirdre.
A moment later Mindy burst in, towing her twins behind her. The noise level escalated, all five ladies seeming to talk at once, when one of the twins began to wail, which immediately set off the other. Jo hastily ended her conversation with Deirdre and hung up the phone, leaving both ears open to take in the bedlam. Her head pounded, and it was too soon for another pain pill. Jo looked beseechingly at Carrie.
“Hold it, everyone!” Carrie called, grabbing a pair of scissors and rapping the handle sharply on a metal paint can. Everyone looked up with surprise, even the wailing toddlers, and Loralee quickly pulled two lollipops from her tote and put them into their little hands. This made Jo laugh as she wondered if she would see Loralee one day pull out a defibrillator from that ever-present tote of hers for a sudden cardiac emergency.
“I know Jo appreciates everyone’s concern,” Carrie said, “but we need to remember she’s still recuperating. I happen to think,” she added, throwing Jo a scolding look, “that she shouldn’t be here at all, but back in bed. However, since she’s chosen to ignore my advice, let’s try to make it as calm and comfortable for her as we can.”
“Absolutely,” Javonne agreed. “Jo, honey, I brought you a ham and noodle casserole, so you won’t have to cook for a couple of nights. It’s Harry’s favorite. You can give me the dish back whenever.” She gave Jo a hug and dashed off.
Mindy apologized for her toddlers’ part in the chaos. “I didn’t expect everyone else to be here. The twins get upset around too many strangers.” She thanked Loralee for the treats, which kept their little mouths busy—the term “plugged” occurred to Jo. Mindy chatted a bit longer, then, when she saw the lollipops dwindling down to the stick, said a hasty good-bye and took off.
“Jo, we’ll be going too,” Ina Mae said. “But before we do, is there some way we can help with this murder business? I don’t want to see you get hurt anymore, whatever the cause. Plus, as Carrie says, you should be resting.”
“I really don’t know what you could do, Ina Mae, other than to keep your eyes and ears open for me. Information seems to float through the air in this town. Perhaps you can catch something helpful in the breeze.”
“What about this landscape person, Schroder?” Loralee asked. “We could keep an eye on him for you.”
“Do you two play golf?” Carrie asked hopefully.
“Well, no.”
“I doubt he’d let your power walkers tramp around the course, Ina Mae,” Jo said, “so let’s just let him be for the time being. But thank you, both of you, for your offer, and for coming by.” A few more careful hugs, and they were off. Once the door closed behind them, Jo turned to Carrie.
“My plan is to try to connect with Bethanne Fowler, as soon as I get my car back. But I don’t want company for that. I think that particular conversation will work best one-on-one.”
“Jo, I’m worried for you. I think you should leave this to the police.”
“Carrie, you know I can’t. I realize you’re concerned because of what happened last night. But the remedy is not to do nothing. Battered though I may be, I’m sure I must be getting closer to the truth. The best way to end all this is to push forward. The police aren’t going forward, in my opinion; they’re going in circles—or, rather, one great big circle with me in the center. If I don’t want to get stuck there, I have to keep moving, not simply wait for the noose to tighten around me.”
Jo straightened a display of wreaths that had been knocked off kilter. “And don’t worry. I’m on my guard now, much more than I was before.”
Carrie looked at her, worry written all over her face. “But remember, Jo, so is the murderer. He doesn’t want to be caught, and he has that great big advantage.”
Jo waited, knowing pretty much what was coming since she’d thought it herself, several times.
“The murderer, Jo, knows who you are.”
That evening, Jo had just put Javonne’s ham and noodle casserole in the oven to warm when the phone rang. It was Deirdre.
“Jo, I didn’t want to go into this when I called you at the store because I could hear all the pandemonium going on. There’s something I need to tell you.”
Jo heard the seriousness in Deirdre’s voice.
“Alden got this from someone he knows in the police department. He didn’t say who, and I didn’t ask, and I’d rather you didn’t mention where you heard this either. Jo, Morgan recently got an anonymous letter.”
“Oh?” Jo didn’t like the sound of this.
“It accused you of having arranged the explosion that killed your husband up in New York.”
Jo sank down into a nearby chair.
“Anonymous?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then he certainly can’t put any credibility into it, can he?”
“I don’t know about that. You said he already had been looking into the accident enough to question it, so there’s obviously interest in that direction already. I just thought you should know that things may heat up for you. Maybe you need to prepare yourself—gather whatever reports you have on the explosion and soon. Perhaps talk to your lawyer.”
Jo laughed. Right, bring Earnest C. Ainsworthy in on this. That would help.
“This is ridiculous,” she said aloud. “Who could have sent such a thing?”
“I don’t know, and I agree, it is ridiculous. But there it is. I thought it was better for you to be forewarned.”
“Yes. Thank you, Deirdre.”
“I’d better go. Alden doesn’t know I’m calling, and he’s probably regretting he let it slip out. I half-promised him I wouldn’t say anything, but sometimes loyalty to one’s friends has to take precedence over other concerns.”
Jo hung up, her thoughts spinning, wondering who hated her enough to have written that letter. Niles Sandborn? Would his grudge against her push him to such lengths? Jo couldn’t see him exerting himself to that extent, but it was possible.
Deirdre never said where the letter had come from, and Jo hadn’t asked. She wished she had. Surely it had to have come from New York, though, didn’t it?
Or was it from someone here in Abbotsville?
Jo stared into space until the aroma of Javonne’s casserole heating in the oven reminded her it was suppertime.
Too bad she didn’t feel hungry.
Chapter 24
Jo had her car back, having picked it up from Hanson’s, and was pleased with this return to some normalcy and independence. However, the price of that return—her check covering the large deductible—put her in a deep financial hole, which would deepen even further when the hospital bill arrived. She knew it would take a frightening amount of time to climb out of debt.
Much of the pleasure she expected to feel at being back behind the wheel was tempered by Deirdre’s call the night before. She’d tried to put it aside for the time being, but this morning it continued to weigh heavily on her mind. In addition, she was surprised to discover that driving was making her feel shaky; a post-traumatic reaction, she figured. It would be awhile, she feared, before she would again travel on autopilot, her fingers relaxed on the wheel as she listened to her radio, rather than in her present state: steering with a white-knuckle
grip and hearing every knock and chug of this rolling metal box.
But at least she could now travel solo, which was a bonus, and the first place she was going was to Bethanne Fowler’s apartment for a one-on-one talk. Jo had reached Bethanne by phone and arranged the meeting, explaining that it was to talk about Genna. Bethanne had agreed, probably assuming it to be a condolence call for the loss of her good friend.
Jo approached the Wildwood apartments by the same route she had driven the night of her accident. She saw the remains of the tree she had hit, broken and partially cleared away; the sight produced a shiver and a flash of nausea as the memories flooded back. Jo blinked hard and took a deep breath before driving on and turning into the Wildwood’s parking lot.
She followed the numbers to the correct building, parked, and climbed out. She took a few more deep breaths to gain full composure, then adjusted the red baseball cap that had replaced her scarf and headed for the door. She was conscious of the bruises that were still highly visible through her makeup. It wasn’t her favorite look for making new acquaintances, but it would have to do.
Jo checked the row of apartment buzzers and pressed the one for 304. It buzzed back in a moment, and she pulled open the outer door and began her two-flight climb. About halfway up the first flight she heard the sound of a door closing up above. Footsteps tramped downward toward her. On the first landing a well-dressed, fortysomething-year-old man swept by her without comment. He seemed familiar, but Jo couldn’t think why. Was he someone she had encountered around town? Possibly.
She continued her climb and soon found apartment 304. A couple of taps with the metal knocker brought a “just a minute” response, and Jo waited, hearing noises inside and picturing Bethanne doing some last minute cleaning.
The door opened, and the woman whose photo Jo had seen on the tennis shop wall stood before her, wearing a white V-neck sweater and dark pants. Her coloring and features resembled Genna’s. But, whereas Genna had projected an air of sensitivity and naiveté, Bethanne’s expression was harder and more assertive, though the touch of redness about the eyes hinted at the struggle of the last few days.
“Jo McAllister?” she asked.
“Yes. Thank you, Bethanne, for giving me some of your time.”
“No problem.” Bethanne stepped back to let Jo in. “I haven’t been going to work for the last few days. It’s been, well, it’s been tough.”
“I’m sure it has, and I’m so sorry. From what I understand, you and Genna were friends since childhood.”
“Kindergarten.” Bethanne led the way to the living room. “Nearly eighteen years. We were like sisters. Each of us was an only child, so we latched on to each other right away.”
“You could almost be sisters. I saw the resemblance immediately.”
Bethanne laughed slightly. “Everyone said that.” She fingered the turquoise pendant that hung from a silver chain around her neck. “But that was the only similarity. Inside we were like night and day. But maybe that’s why we got along so well. We never competed for the same things.”
“No, I guess not, since you’re into tennis and she loved the theater. That’s how I got to know Genna, by the way, through the Abbotsville Playhouse.”
“Oh, I see. Would you like some coffee? I have a pot made.”
“That would be great. Black is fine.”
Bethanne left to get the coffee, and Jo sank down on the beige tweed sofa. As she listened to the soft clatter coming from the kitchen, she looked around the pleasant but impersonal room. It held a new-looking sofa and chairs, end tables, and lamps, all coordinated and looking as though they had been scooped up in one swoop from a furniture-store display—and not a very high-end one at that. She figured this would be the usual process for two young, single women who likely considered their life here a stopgap of sorts and who had probably chipped in together on the purchase.
Where were all their personal items, though, such as photos or mementos? In their own bedrooms? Jo hoped so, since this room offered little to identify its occupants. There were no bookcases or scattered magazines. Even the pictures on the wall seemed to have been selected for their colors and size rather than the art. Then Jo spotted a sole book on the end table, lying slightly beyond the lamp, and reached over to pick it up. A book of poetry, titled 100 Love Sonnets by the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda, translated from Spanish. She flipped it open and read a few of the lyrical, sensual lines. Was this Genna’s? Perhaps a gift from Pete? If so, there was a whole other side of Pete she hadn’t seen.
Jo heard a soft yip come from another part of the apartment and remembered Bethanne’s dog. She returned the book to where she’d found it as Bethanne came out of the kitchen carrying a small tray, which she then set down on the uncluttered coffee table.
“So,” Bethanne said, holding out a mug, “you acted at the playhouse too?”
“No, I was doing jewelry and set design for the production.” Jo took a sip of the coffee. It was strong—just as she liked it. “I own the new craft shop on Main Street. The place where Kyle Sandborn died.”
Bethanne froze in the middle of stirring sugar into her coffee, but only briefly, and a split second later she tapped her spoon on the edge of the mug and carefully set it down.
“I heard about your shop. Wasn’t Kyle, uh, that is, didn’t it happen during your grand opening?”
Jo nodded.
“Well,” Bethanne took a sip from her mug, “you seem to have become closely associated with Abbotsville’s two recent deaths. How very unfortunate.”
“I agree. However, it’s beginning to seem like nearly everyone in this town is connected to those two people, in one way or another.”
Bethanne nodded. “Quite possibly. And they were connected to each other, obviously, through the playhouse. Although Kyle’s death, of course, was murder.”
“Yes, it was. But I’m not so sure Genna’s wasn’t.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I don’t see any good reason why Genna would have fallen accidentally. And knowing her, although briefly, I can’t believe she jumped to her own death, after first carefully tying the dog—your dog—to a tree.”
At the mention of her dog, Bethanne’s lip began to tremble.
“If I hadn’t called and asked her to walk him . . .” Bethanne stood up and walked to the balcony window, her back to Jo. “I stayed late at the club. Jane Watson was asking my advice about a new tennis racquet. Then she wanted to try the demo. I agreed to hit a few balls with her. If I had just come home . . .”
“If you had taken your dog out yourself, you might be dead.”
Bethanne spun around. “What do you mean? That someone killed Genna thinking it was me?”
“I think that’s very possible, possible enough for me to warn you.”
“But why? Why would anyone want to kill me?”
“That’s what I hoped you could tell me.”
Jo watched Bethanne’s face as a series of emotions flew across it—disbelief, anger, then fear. “I don’t know! I can’t imagine.”
“Bethanne, so far the only person I can connect with both you and Kyle is Hank Schroder. Hank had good reason to have murderous feelings toward Kyle. Did he have any problems with you?”
“Hank? No, nothing. He was responsible for keeping the tennis courts clean, and once in a while his crew did a lousy job and I had to get after him about it. But I don’t see that he’d want to kill me for that. That’s crazy.”
“Nothing else? Anything more personal?”
“Personal? With Hank?” Bethanne’s lip curled at the thought. “We had very little to do with each other. Unless he had some kind of perverted fantasies about me, there was nothing between us other than what I’ve told you.”
“Fantasies? Did you ever get any uneasy feelings in that direction?”
“No,” Bethanne waved a hand dismissively. “Just making a sick joke. Women in short tennis skirts sometimes draw unwanted attention.” She sat dow
n across from Jo. “Hank Schroder never struck me as a person who spared a thought for anything beyond his work.”
“Could he have felt you jeopardized his job by making complaints?”
“I doubt that. Everyone knew running that crew of high school kids was a major hassle. I never went to Bob Gordon about it, always directly to Hank. I doubt he took it personally. Look,” she said, “I really don’t think someone was after me. Or poor Genna either. It had to be an accident. Maybe she was reaching for something on the edge. She could have tied up Mojo before doing that, to keep him back.”
“Maybe. What about Genna’s boyfriend, Pete? Could he have been with her? I know there were some problems between them, and he has an explosive temper. Perhaps an argument between them turned violent?”
“Pete?” Bethanne frowned. “I know what you’re saying. Pete really has anger issues. But I’ve seen him lately, and he’s devastated over this. There’s no way he could have caused Genna’s death. Really. No way.”
Jo nodded. “I tend to agree with you on that. But I still think there’s a strong possibility Genna may have been mistaken for you. Even if I can’t figure out yet by whom, I think you should be very careful.”
The yip Jo had heard earlier from the back of the apartment escalated to frantic barking. Bethanne got up. “Mojo doesn’t like to be closed up too long.” She walked down the hall and opened a bedroom door, releasing a small dog that reminded Jo of the toy poodle her Great-aunt Martha had owned, years ago. The dog scampered excitedly to the living room, sniffing first at Jo’s feet, then bouncing on and off the sofa, trying to get on her lap or lick her face. Jo fended him off, laughing.
“Mojo!” Bethanne scolded, scooping him up into her arms and holding him tightly. “Sorry, he gets excited with visitors. That’s why I try to keep him away.”
“That’s quite all right. Oh, your necklace!” The little dog had wiggled about and nipped at Bethanne’s turquoise pendant.
Wreath of Deception Page 17