A History of Murder

by Lynn Bohart

  While Mabel Snyder reminded me of a butterfly, all flighty and breathy, her husband made me think of a tree stump. I admit that I have a tendency to judge certain people by their looks. It’s not something I’m proud of, but it’s something I can’t seem to control. I’m visually oriented. And Milton Snyder’s large, bald head and thick neck made me think of a tree stump. His stubborn personality only helped to reinforce the image.

  “Maybe Julia is right,” Doe said. “Maybe it’s just a way for him to have a better appreciation of the artist’s talent.”

  “I doubt it,” Blair said. “Snyder is the most sanctimonious man I’ve ever met. He actually handed me his sweater at the Summer Celebration last year. A breeze had come up and he thought I might be cold.” She gave us a ‘get my point’ look and her blue eyes glinted with anger as she returned her gaze to Snyder.

  Since Blair’s normal summer wardrobe consisted of tight pants and a form-fitting tank top that was two sizes too small, I was pretty sure Milton had offered the sweater because of her natural bodily response to a sudden cool breeze; he surely wasn’t the kind to care about anyone’s personal comfort. But our speculation about why Milton Snyder was in the class was cut short at the sound of a familiar voice.

  “Juuulia!”

  Doe cringed. I turned in surprise as Goldie Singleton, my next door neighbor, waddled through the door. She scuttled across the room with Aria Stottlemeyer, the postmistress, looming right behind her. Any enthusiasm I’d had for the class quickly evaporated.

  “Goldie, what are you doing here?” I asked, hoping she was in the building for a different class.

  “I’m takin’ Welping’s art class,” she said. “I have a few blank spots downstairs to fill,” she said with a snort of laughter.

  In truth, Goldie’s home was filled from stem to stern with a mish-mash of art and collectibles from around the world. If there was a blank shelf or wall anywhere in the house, I’d never seen it.

  “Why are you gals here?” Aria asked, with her pointy nose in the air.

  Aria was as tall as Goldie was short and had the face of my mother when she was constipated. She was extremely competitive, and I could already hear her snide comments about my future sculpted flower opening to the sun.

  “Uh…we wanted to take an art class in honor of Martha,” I said. “It’s something she always wanted to do, but didn’t have the chance before she died.”

  “That’s just what you’d expect from the Mercer Island Heroes,” Goldie said to Aria with appreciation. “But you should have your medallions on so that people know who you are.”

  She gestured around the room, and I noticed that several people were watching us. Goldie never missed an opportunity to remind us that we had earned the first-ever Mercer Island Hero Award from the mayor back in December, after we’d saved a young woman from a human-trafficking ring. In fact, it was the case in which Martha had died. But Goldie seemed much more enamored with the honor than we were, as illustrated by Doe, who withered under her suggestion. Even Rudy’s thin lips turned into a frown.

  “Uh…no, we don’t like to call attention to that sort of thing.”

  “They’re shy,” Aria said, bumping Goldie’s shoulder.

  “Not shy,” Goldie countered. “Humble. Heroes are always humble. Isn’t that right, Julia?”

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  We all looked up to find that our resident artist was ready to begin.

  “Oh…oh, we’d better get a seat,” Goldie said. “See you guys later.”

  The two women hurried off. I gave a sigh of relief. Doe opened her mouth to say something, but I cut her off. “I know. I know. Between the Snyders and Goldie, this art class could turn out to be a disaster. But we’re here to honor Martha.”

  “May I have everyone’s attention?” Welping said from the front of the room.

  He was dressed in Khaki cargo pants and a loose-fitting muslin shirt. I heard a couple of twitters across the room and glanced up to see a few women smiling stupidly at him.

  “This is meant to be a pottery sampler class,” Welping said. “For the first two weeks, half the class will practice at the potter’s wheel, while the other half practices hand sculpting. The second two weeks, we’ll switch. So, why don’t you each go to the wall and grab an apron before we get started? Then grab a box with your pottery tools at the front of the room.”

  There was an immediate shuffling of chairs and feet as everyone got up and headed for the far wall. And yet, Doe remained where she was.

  “Aren’t you going to get an apron?” I asked her.

  Doe was one of the most perfect people I knew. She required order in her life. Her house was immaculate. Her car always looked like she’d just had it detailed. She was an extremely picky eater. And the one time when I’d seen her gardening, although she was kneeling in the dirt, she looked right out of a Home and Garden magazine. I often thought she’d been demagnetized in some way so that dirt just didn’t stick to her.

  That made watching her difficult, as she stared at the wall of stained aprons and struggled with the idea of having to wear one that had been worn by dozens of other people. It was like watching someone else eat bugs.

  But she was a trouper and stood up to follow me to the rack of aprons. She grabbed the cleanest one she could find and carefully draped it over her head. She was about to tie it in a loose knot in the back, when Goldie came up behind her.

  “Let me get that for you, Doe,” Goldie said, grabbing the tie strings out of her hands. She cinched it tight, making Doe stiffen as if she’d been electrocuted. “You don’t want to get anything on that nice outfit.” Goldie tied the strings in a bow and marched off.

  Doe remained frozen in place. Rudy leaned into her and said, “Just breathe, Doe. It will all be over in a couple of hours.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Doe said with a curled lip.

  For the next fifteen minutes, we listened to Welping discuss clay as a medium and how the various little tools we had in our boxes were to be used. I glanced down, thinking they looked like things a cave man might have used. There was a sponge, a couple of flat wooden spatula-type things, and several wooden utensils with metal prongs that looked right out of a dentist’s office.

  First Welping had us cut off a chunk of clay and knead it like bread dough to warm it up and remove air bubbles. Then he announced that those who would start on the potter’s wheel would make a bowl that night, while the sculpting half would sculpt, yes, a flower. He’d set up a large porcelain rose in the front of the room as a model, lit by an overhead light. I saw Milton Snyder huff to himself, and I wondered again why he was there.

  Welping read off the names of who would go to the pottery wheels first. Rudy and I were among that group. We picked up our clay and tool boxes and made our way to the back of the room, while the other half of the class got started with the rose.

  While Welping demonstrated how to use the potter’s wheel, I had a growing sense of unease. This had disaster written all over it, at least for me. What was it about a clump of wet clay, a spinning wheel, and me that Blair thought was a good idea when she registered us for this class?

  A half hour later, however, I was feeling more relaxed. Using a potter’s wheel is messy and clumsy at first, but working with the clay felt as organic as if I were out digging in the dirt. I enjoyed it.

  I tried and failed twice to get a decent bowl going, but a misplaced finger or thumb sent the entire piece off center. It would then spin awkwardly, looking very much like a flat tire. At one point, Welping stepped in to help.

  “Here,” he said. “Let’s start over.”

  He used the potter’s wire to swipe my lump of clay off the wheel at the base. Then he rolled it into a ball and slapped it down again. “Now, be stingy with the water. Like this…” He leaned over as the clay spun and deftly stuck his thumb into the middle of it to open it up, while he held the sides of the clay with his other hand. “See?” he said when he was done.

  By t
hat time, the musky scent of his aftershave had me feeling heady, so I could only nod. He smiled and turned away. I heard a smug little laugh and looked over to where Rudy was giving me a smirk.

  I continued working on the bowl, drawing it up and out as the wheel turned. This time, I concentrated on balancing the pressure between the hand I had inside the bowl and my fingers on the outside of the bowl. It was working.

  After a few minutes, I stopped to take a rest. The bowl was now about six inches wide and four inches tall. I’d have to cut it down. But I’d finally gotten the hang of it, and looked with pride at my construction.

  I snuck a peek at Rudy, who was hunched over her wheel, focused like a laser. Her shoulders were tensed and her teeth clenched; she was doing battle with the clay rather than caressing and smoothing it. I smiled to myself. We were all so different in how we approached things.

  Because I wanted to shorten mine, I grabbed what looked like an ice pick and then got the wheel going again at a good pace. This was a critical moment. I had to be careful. If I didn’t hold the sharp tool steady, the top edge of my bowl would be crooked and ruin the entire look.

  I kept my foot on the pedal and leaned in. Using the fingers of my left hand, I put pressure inside the bowl near the top rim and then stuck the pick into the clay to slice off about two inches. Since I was so focused on the bowl, I forgot what my foot was doing and pressed down even further. The wheel sped up.

  And then it happened!

  Frankly, they should warn you when you take a pottery class that there’s a point at which an object will actually take flight when released from a high speed turn. Whatever that calculation is, I was quick to reach it and watched the top two inches of my wet, floppy clay go airborne in a matter of seconds.

  There is a saying that before disaster strikes, people often see their life flash before their eyes. Well, it’s not true. Rudy didn’t have time to see anything before the clay smacked her right in the left side of her face.

  Everyone stopped and stared. Rudy paused and cast me a threatening look, before using the back of her hand to wipe off the mess that now lathered her skin. With a flick of her wrist, she flung the sloppy clay onto the floor and then glanced down at her blouse and apron, which were now covered in splotches of wet, gray clay.

  “Time for a break,” Welping announced from the front of the room.

  After apologizing profusely and helping Rudy to clean herself up, we joined Doe and Blair again at the table.

  “What happened to you?” Blair asked upon seeing Rudy. “It looks like the potter’s wheel threw up on you.”

  A chunk of Rudy’s hair was clumped together with clay. She had big wet spots all over her apron and blouse, and across one cheek was a red welt where the strip of clay had slapped her. And yet she was a picture of restraint. All she said was, “Let’s just say I was helping Julia with her bowl.”

  Blair and Doe looked at me and began to laugh.

  Damn!

  “So how did you guys do?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

  Doe had something in front of her that looked more like a cauliflower than a rose, but Blair’s was almost perfect. Was there anything she wasn’t good at?

  “Yours is beautiful,” I said to her.

  “She’s right. Nice job, Mrs. Wentworth.”

  It was Welping. He knew her name?

  Blair smiled demurely. “Thank you so much, Richard. I just copied yours. You’re so expressive with your hands.”

  Oh, god!

  She fluttered her eyelashes and leaned toward him, allowing him to stare longingly at her cleavage.

  “You can’t manufacture talent,” he said. “I think you have a good eye.”

  She leaned into him a bit more. I thought she might fall off the chair, so as he wandered away, I reached out and grabbed the sleeve of her blouse.

  “Careful. Don’t want to find yourself on the floor.”

  She giggled. “At least not alone,” she said, watching him walk away. “Boy, he has dreamy eyes.”

  “Those aren’t his eyes you’re looking at,” Rudy quipped.

  Since it was a break, a couple of the women grabbed their purses and left the room. Others got up and just milled around. We huddled up and took the opportunity to fill Doe in on finding the hidden room in the attic and Rudy’s idea to write a book. She agreed, and we began to brainstorm how to proceed. After a few minutes, I excused myself to use the ladies’ room, but when I returned, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to find Milton Snyder staring down at me.

  “The Snyders have lived on the island since the turn of the century, you know,” he said.

  Doe and Rudy wheeled around to listen in.

  “Um…okay,” I replied.

  “I overheard you talking. What you said about finding that secret room,” he said. “My great grandfather was the first Baptist minister on the island. You should come talk to me. I could tell you a lot about your property.”

  I glanced over at Rudy, who gave me an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

  “Um…well, we’ll see,” I said to him. “We’re just throwing some ideas around. But thanks.”

  I turned away, hoping to end the conversation.

  “Mrs. Applegate,” he said sternly.

  I turned back to face him. “What is it?”

  “You shouldn’t ignore me. You know, a young woman was murdered in that barn.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Despite the red flag raised by Milton Snyder, the four of us avoided him at the end of class and decided that we would find the information we needed some other way. In fact, as we parted, we decided to meet the next night to begin planning our approach.

  I got to bed early, because one family had booked the entire inn from Tuesday through Friday to hold a reunion. They were all due to arrive the following day.

  The first member of the Welch family rang the bell at the front desk at nine o’clock the next morning. Since there were five children and a baby between eight adults, Crystal and I were kept busy pulling out rolling cots, a crib, and making sure each room had ample towels and amenities.

  Most of the group was ensconced in their rooms by noon. Shortly after, a taxi rolled up to the front porch. An elderly couple emerged. I met them at the front door to help them inside. They were Ruby and Harvey Welch, the matriarch and patriarch of the family.

  “Welcome to the St. Claire Inn,” I said with a smile.

  “I hope my daughter and sons have arrived,” the elder Mrs. Welch replied, ignoring my greeting.

  I paused at the rudeness, but replied, “Yes. I believe everyone is here now. Do you need help with your bags?”

  The taxi driver was in the process of unloading two big suitcases from the back of the car. Mrs. Welch didn’t even glance behind her before saying, “That’s what we pay the driver for. Harvey, do you need to use the bathroom?”

  The elder Mr. Welch had to be in his late seventies or early eighties. He was stooped and balding and walked with a cane. He glanced at his wife.

  “No, Ruby. And stop asking me in front of other people.”

  She twisted her thin lips into a scowl. “Fine.” She turned to me. “We’ll check in now.”

  “Uh…of course. Why don’t you step over here to the counter?”

  I moved behind the reception desk and turned the book around to allow her to sign in. She took the book and used a skinny index finger to run down the sign-in sheet to verify which of her family members had arrived.

  “I see my sons have arrived. What room are Rebecca and the kids in?” she demanded. “I don’t want to be too close to the baby.”

  “I…uh, put them in the suite, number 6. You and your husband will be in number 4.”

  She heaved a deep sigh, as if she would have to tolerate the inconvenience of just a single room between them.

  “I suppose that will be fine. We’d like to go to our room now.”

  “Just sign here,” I said, pointing to the book. “And I’l
l get your key.”

  I returned to the office and took the appropriate key off the wall. When I handed it to her, I said, “Please let me know if you need anything else. Your room is right at the top of the stairs,” I said, pointing above my head. “We have a small service elevator down that hallway, if you’d care to use it.”

  The suite door opened above us and two young boys ran out, clomping down the stairs, slapping each other and laughing.

  “Robbie! Stewart!” the elder Mrs. Welch snapped.

  The two boys slid to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, a look of fear etched into their young features.

  “Hello, Grandma,” they said like two little robots.

  A woman with long, dark hair appeared on the staircase behind them. “Boys, go outside and play. But stay close,” she said.

  The boys disappeared into the breakfast room without another word and out the back door.

  “Hello, Mother,” the woman said, coming down the stairs.

  “Hello, Rebecca. Did Robert come with you?”

  “No. He had to work.”

  “Of course he did. Our first family reunion in ten years, and he’s tied to his desk.”

  Rebecca’s fine features tensed. “This is a busy time of year for him, Mother; you know that. He couldn’t help it.”

  “And you have no influence over him, I take it. Or more likely, you just didn’t say anything.”

  “That’s not fair,” Rebecca said. She glanced at me.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I said. “I have to help in the kitchen.” I quickly took my leave and joined April, who was checking inventory in the pantry. “Boy, I have the feeling this is going to be the week from hell,” I said to her.

  “Why?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Welch, Sr. just arrived. Did you ever see the movie Mommy Dearest?”

  April grimaced. “You’re kidding?”

  “ No. The elder Mrs. Welch doesn’t look anything like Joan Crawford, but I bet she’d be a shoo-in for the role if they did a remake.”

  ÷

  That afternoon, as I helped April clean up the afternoon snack tray, I filled her in on the book we planned to do.