by Laura Alden
In fact, she hadn’t said anything; the phone call from Marina had interrupted the offer I’d been underselling.
Yvonne was toying with the collar of her crewneck sweater. “You want the job,” Lois barked. “What could be better than working for minimum wage evenings and weekends? And holidays. Low man on the totem pole gets holidays, you know.”
I caught Lois’s eye and frowned, shaking my head. She was acting as if Yvonne was already a long-term employee, and I didn’t even have a W-4 for her. As that thought came and went, another took its place.” “You are an American citizen, aren’t you?”
Yvonne started. “I what? Oh . . . yes.” Her smile was small and brief. “Born and raised.”
“Not around here,” Lois said. “You don’t have an accent accent, but the way you talk isn’t quite right.”
“Lois,” I said.
“What?”
Honestly, sometimes she was as bad as Marina. “Yvonne hasn’t said if she wants the job.”
Lois gazed at the tin ceiling. “Of course she does.” She shifted her gaze and skewered Yvonne with a laserlike glare. “Don’t you?”
Yvonne’s shoulders lifted and fell. “I . . . I just . . .”
“Take it,” Lois commanded. “You’ll regret it every time you open your paycheck, but”—her voice softened—“you’ll love every minute you’re in this store. It’s a magical place.”
“I . . .” Yvonne clasped her hands, then unclasped them, then clasped them again, wringing her hands in classic nineteenth-century gothic style. She looked up at me. “Can I talk to you?”
“Um, sure. I know just the place.” I glanced around at the empty store. “Can I bring back a cookie for anyone? Chocolate chip?”
Sara grinned. “Yes, please.”
Lois heaved a martyred sigh. “Oatmeal raisin. Two of them.”
Five minutes later, Yvonne and I were seated at a small round table, our shoulder blades resting uncomfortably against heart-shaped wire chair backs. We were surrounded by antiques of all shapes, sizes, and prices. The Rynwood Antique Mall was run by my friends Alice and Alan, and half the population came here on a daily basis to eat Alice’s glorious cookies. “I cook ’em like I like ’em,” she always said, and the couple was making more money from cookies than from selling antiques.
I’d told Alice I was gaining more weight from her cookies than from all the other food groups combined. What was she going to do about that? She’d laughed and said, “Have another cookie. The coconut chocolate chip turned out really good today.”
Yvonne broke her M&M’s cookie into four pieces, picked up one, and covered the other bits with her napkin. She finished the first piece and reached for the second. Though she’d said she needed to talk to me, she didn’t seem eager to begin the conversation.
Which could only mean there was something she didn’t want to tell me. I considered possibilities. Due to seasonal affective disorder, she never smiled when it was cloudy. Or, thanks to family issues, she’d need to bring—I scanned her face, trying to estimate her age—her daughter to work three times a week. Or, due to a bizarre medical problem, her doctor had said she shouldn’t operate a computer keyboard. Or—
“I was in jail.”
Or she’d been in jail. If I’d had a month, I might have come up with that possibility, but probably not.
“Actually, it was prison.” She gave me a darting glance. “There’s a difference.”
Prison. Yvonne? She didn’t look as if she would swat a mosquito that was poking its pointed nose into her skin. What could she possibly have done to end up in prison?
She pulled out the third piece of cookie. “I was convicted of murder.”
The air in my lungs suddenly felt stale and empty. Murder? The cookie I was holding crumbled to bits. Murder? She couldn’t have murdered anyone, she just couldn’t have. Anyone who loved books as much as Yvonne clearly did couldn’t possibly murder anyone. Which made no sense whatsoever, but how can you help what pops into your head?
“Fifteen years ago I was sentenced to life in prison for murder.” Her tone was flat. Lifeless. “My husband and I and a woman named Sadie Florentino all worked at a big accounting firm in California.” She named the company, but it meant nothing to me. Regional Beth, that was me. Marina still made fun of me for asking who Bergdorf Goodman was, but why should I care about a store hundreds of miles away?
“The prosecutor said I killed her because she and my husband were having an affair,” Yvonne said dully. “It didn’t take much to convince the jury.”
“What happened?” I asked softly.
“Turns out there was a police officer who believed me all along when I said I didn’t do it. He believed that I didn’t know Sadie and my husband were having an affair. He believed me when I said if I had known I would’ve strangled my husband instead of Sadie.” A half smile came and went. “He never gave up, which was more than I can say for my husband—I mean ex-husband—and my family and almost all of my friends.”
Bitterness tinged her voice. “My mother died thinking I was a killer. Mom said she loved me no matter what, but that I wouldn’t be in prison if I wasn’t guilty.” She nibbled at a bit of cookie. “I told her over and over I was innocent, but she just gave me that look.”
I knew it well. The look came to women the instant they became caretakers of small, wriggling children. The “you know you’ve done wrong” look, which segued immediately into “I raised you better than this; I’m so disappointed in you,” and ended with “Admit what you’ve done and things will go easier when your father gets home.”
Yvonne went on. “Jake kept looking for evidence that would prove I hadn’t killed Sadie. I never even knew he was doing it, until one day he showed up at visitation. He started laughing and pounding the table. ‘I got it,’ he said. ‘I got proof.’ ” The memory shone on her face.
Curiosity battled with the recognition of her right to privacy, but since curiosity is one of the five major food groups, I asked, “What was the proof?”
“They’d never processed the car for DNA evidence.”
Car? My skin tingled. And not in a good way.
“No one ever called for it,” Yvonne said. “I couldn’t afford an expensive defense attorney. All I had was an overworked public defender on my side. The prosecutor convicted me with motive and opportunity. Plus . . . well . . . back then I never saw any reason to hold my temper back.” She looked at her hands, then at me. “It’s different now.”
I nodded, believing her.
“Anyway, when Jake heard the car was still parked back in the far corner of a police parking lot, he called in some favors and got a forensics team to go over it.”
“What did they find?”
“Hair with follicles attached.” She lifted a stray brown strand from her sweater and stared at it. “That’s the good kind, they said. The DNA matched up with a guy who’d been convicted of a carjacking a couple of years before Sadie’s murder. And in the backseat they found some skin cells that matched up.”
“I can’t believe they didn’t run any of those tests for your trial.” Indignation vibrated in my voice. “How can someone be convicted of murder without DNA evidence?”
“This was fifteen years ago.” She shrugged. “And like Jake said, real life ain’t CSI. DNA testing is expensive, and if the prosecutor thinks she can get a conviction without bothering, why spend the money?”
Her voice was calm and reasonable. Unreasonably, the aura of peace that seemed to surround her irked me. “How can you be so calm?” I asked. “You spent a huge percentage of your life in prison for a crime you didn’t commit. Why aren’t you angry? Why aren’t you demanding . . . demanding . . .” But exactly what, I couldn’t say.
“You see, don’t you?” She nodded. “I could be angry at the prosecutor. I could be mad at my ex-husband for having the affair. I could be mad at the way our justice system works. But what good would any of that do? It wouldn’t give me back those years, and I don’
t want to let anger take hold of my life.” Her words were soft and imbued with a sense of tranquillity. “I want to leave it behind. All of it.”
That made sense, and I said so.
“Thank you,” Yvonne said. “Marina says you’re the best listener ever.”
“Marina tends to exaggerate.”
“Maybe.” She smiled at me. “But I doubt it.”
The compliment made me twitchy, so I shoved half a cookie into my mouth, making myself even more uncomfortable. After I managed to swallow most of it without needing the Heimlich maneuver, I asked Yvonne if she knew anyone in Wisconsin.
“Not really. Just Marina,” she said. “And now you.”
“No family?”
“Native Californians don’t leave the state if they can help it.” She fiddled with her napkin. “Now that you know about . . . about me, do you still want to offer me a job? It might not look good to hire someone . . . like me.”
Unease curled around the back of my neck and tried to whisper itself into my thoughts. I loosened my ponytail to cover my ears. No whispers allowed. “I’d love to have you.”
“If you’re sure?”
“Yup.” I nodded. “Low pay, horrible hours, and all.”
We shook on the deal and walked back to the store in amicable companionship. But while I was telling her about store hours and standard operating procedures, a little thought was growing large. The deaths of Sadie Florentino and Sam Helmstetter had an awful lot in common.
At half past midnight, I sat bolt upright in bed, panting with fear and covered in sweat. I yanked the sheet away from my neck—not a noose, just a sheet—and hoped I wasn’t having a heart attack.
I sucked air in through my nose, and blew it out through pursed lips. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.
A few hundred repetitions later, normalcy crept back. I wasn’t being strangled to death, I wasn’t going to die from sheer fright, and even without a paper bag, I wasn’t going to hyperventilate. I blew out one last big breath and propped my elbows on my thighs, letting my head hang down.
In my dream, a wool scarf had wrapped itself around my neck, all cozy and warm, but then it turned into a rope and kept getting tighter and tighter and tighter. I put a hand up and was almost surprised that my neck wasn’t tender to the touch. It didn’t take much to figure out where that nightmare came from.
“Way too real.” I said the words out loud, and was reassured that my voice sounded the same as it always did. Never had a little too high and a little too nasal sounded so good.
I slid back down between the sheets, disturbing George just enough to get him to start purring, and tried to find some sleep. But just as I started the long, slow fall into slumber, my eyes snapped open.
Sam. Did he normally wear scarves in winter? Some people did, but many people—especially men—didn’t even own one. Did Sam? I couldn’t remember. If he didn’t normally wear one, how did the killer know a weapon would be so handy?
Ideas tumbled around in my head, and it was a long, long time before I found any sleep.
Chapter 6
Thanks to an unusual fall class schedule, Paoze often worked on Thursdays, so the next morning I gathered Lois and Paoze in my office and told them as little as possible about my new hire. Yvonne herself was at the computerized cash register, studying the software manual.
At the end of my narrative, Lois slurped at her tea. “Why did she move here? To Wisconsin.”
“Why not?” I turned up my palms. “This is a beautiful state. We have scenic beauty galore, the excitement of four seasons—”
“Four seasons. Right.” Lois counted on her fingers. “Fall, winter, spring, and construction season. Or”—she held up her other set of fingers—“winter and three months of poor sledding.”
I ignored her. “We have opportunities in every market sector and we have a great educational system.”
Lois scrunched her face. “Great? Have they taught our youth anything about sled dogs?” She swung around and faced Paoze. “Well, have they?”
Oh, dear.
“Sled dogs?” he asked.
Lois smiled and I could almost hear her thinking, Gotcha!
“Sled dogs are what settled the West,” she said.
He looked at her. “It was the covered wagon and the plow and the oxen. I do not believe in sledding dogs.”
“What?” She opened her eyes wide. “Here I am trying to teach you the stuff they don’t write in history books and you’re saying I’m making it all up?”
Paoze shot me a glance, but I held up my hands and backed away. I’d long since declared myself a noncombatant after a game had started.
“What is the history?” His mouth was firm, set in the “you can’t fool me” stance that Lois took as a direct challenge. “I know of no sled dogs in Kansas. Sled dogs are in Alaska.”
Lois nodded sagely, making her dangling earrings rattle. Today’s ensemble, in contrast to the hunter’s orange of yesterday, was a long brown skirt over brown boots and a tawny-colored sweater. She’d tied her hair back with a white silk scarf and added earrings made of tiny little cowbells.
The clothes I understood—she was showing her solidarity with the deer currently under siege by thousands of hunters—but I didn’t understand the cowbell earrings. She’d told me they represented the deer’s hope for survival. I’d said I wasn’t sure deer had that complex a psychology, and she’d given me the old milk for my tea.
“Yes, indeedy,” she said. “Sled dogs are in Alaska. But they’re also raised throughout the upper Midwest. Not down here, we’re too far south, but up there.” She waved a hand northish. “And back in the day, there were sled dogs everywhere.”
“How then and not today?” Paoze asked suspiciously.
Lois rolled her eyes, all attitude and melodrama. “Haven’t you heard of global warming? There used to be enough snow around here to run sled dogs. We used to have long enough winters to ship supplies from Boston to Denver via sled dog. Kind of like the Pony Express, only different, see?”
Paoze was starting to nod. “Would not horses and big sleds have been a good choice?”
Scenting victory, Lois shook her head vigorously. “Horse hooves get too packed with snow on the long trips. Dog feet were better.”
I was half convinced myself.
“The biggest problem,” she went on, “was the food. When they’re working, dogs eat a lot, and to feed the animals the drivers had to hunt. It took them too far out of their way and they lost so much time that the drivers’ association decided to make a new breed of dogs. It started with breeding a sled dog with a wolf, but then some scientist got the brilliant idea to cross a sled dog with a camel. What a great idea!” Her eyes sparkled. “A camel crossed with a husky. They called it a huskel, and that, my friend, is how the West was settled.”
“Huskel.” Paoze crossed his arms. “I do not believe you.”
“Well, it was only a little camel, and . . .” But Paoze was walking away. “Bugger,” she said. “I had him, did you see it? Why didn’t I stop?”
“No telling stories to Yvonne. At least not until spring.”
Lois sighed. “I suppose we do want her to stay. Anyway, how did she end up here? Wait. She’s had a yearning for fresh cheese curds and this is her chance to make the dream come true.”
I loved cheese curds, those small bits of cheese that, when fresh, squeaked against your teeth. Without too much effort I could eat half a pound at a sitting. Unfortunately I would gain two pounds, which seemed to defy a basic law of thermodynamics—matter cannot be created nor destroyed—but I didn’t feel up to the explanation my brother would give if I asked. “I doubt anyone would move for cheese curds.”
“Kringles?”
Another Wisconsin treat. Kringles looked like a plate-sized race track made of pastry. They were topped with thin icing and came in a variety of fillings: cherry, pecan, cream cheese. All were the stuff of dreams and laden with fat. I stayed away from them at all costs. Except for s
pecial occasions.
“You can have Kringles shipped,” I said.
Lois frowned. “Does she have family here? Maybe she has a thing for Frank Lloyd Wright architecture. The stuff is everywhere, you know.”
“I didn’t pry into her reasons.” I gave Lois a stern look. “And don’t you start, either. If she wants to tell us, she will.”
We left my office and were starting our morning chores when the front bells jingled and Mrs. Tolliver marched in. “I hear you’ve hired a felon,” she announced.
I gasped. How had the news spread so fast? But even as I had the thought, I figured out the answer. Texting. Facebook. Twitter. These days it only took an instant for bad news to travel around the globe. One post on someone’s wall and your reputation was in tatters.
But who had let out the news? And why?
Lois was staring at me, round-eyed. Paoze had gone blank-faced. Yvonne had instantly become a statue, freezing solid in the act of turning a page. The few customers in the store were poking their heads above the shelves, eyes and ears alert.
Mrs. Tolliver nodded at me. “I thought it only fair to tell you in person that I will not patronize your store any longer. And I must say I question your decision. Hiring a convicted killer when there’s a murderer roaming free?” She shook her head briskly.
I faced Mrs. Tolliver. Deep breaths, I told myself. You can do this. Be brave. Or at least pretend that you are. I smiled. “Yvonne is going to be nothing but an asset to this store. But you already know that, don’t you?”
Her chin went up. “I beg your pardon. How could I possibly know such a thing?”
“You met her yesterday.” I nodded at Yvonne. “Mrs. Tolliver, please meet Yvonne Ganassi. Yvonne, this is Mrs. Tolliver, one of our store’s best customers.”
The older woman’s rounded jawline fell slack. “You’re the murderer?”
Yvonne’s shoulders slumped, her pale face a shade whiter. “I didn’t kill anyone,” she whispered. “Ever. I mean . . . I couldn’t.”
Mrs. Tolliver made a tsking noise. “I beg to differ. Anyone can kill, given the right set of circumstances. Even myself, but I would only kill to save one of my loved ones from death.” She pierced Yvonne with a laser glare. “Were you or were you not convicted of the murder of your husband’s mistress?”