by J. R. Ripley
“Work?” What the devil was Cash Calderon talking about?
He must have noticed the confusion on my face because he pointed his big flashlight at the opposite wall.
I gasped. Large chunks of concrete were missing from the walls in several places and the floor was littered with mounds of wet dirt, assorted bits of debris, and gray dust. “What on earth?”
“I’m not sure what you’re up to,” Cash Calderon said, “but you’ve got to be careful of digging into your foundation like that.” His head turned to the ceiling. “The whole place could come crashing down.”
I couldn’t help looking up too. I gulped, picturing the entire three-story Victorian house crashing down on our heads. I’d never been one for small spaces. I particularly didn’t like small, dark spaces. I even more particularly didn’t like small, dark, and dank spaces that harbored potentially deadly black mold. And I even more particularly didn’t like small, dark, dank, potentially death-harboring black mold spaces that could come crashing down any minute and crush me to a wet pulp.
I ran.
Mr. Calderon caught up to me back on the ground floor.
“Sorry about that,” I said, my hands braced against my knees as I forced myself to take slow, even breaths. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Mom patted my back. “Are you okay, dear? You look like the Devil himself has been chasing you.”
I gulped and bobbed my head up and down. This was totally embarrassing. Thank goodness nobody else had been around to see my temporary breakdown. I straightened and pushed my hair behind my ears.
I saw Mr. Calderon wink at Mom. “No problem,” he said. “Happens all the time.”
I was sure it didn’t, but it was nice of him to try to make me feel better.
“Oh dear,” Mom cooed, “another customer.” I watched as Mom hurried to greet the newcomer. I perked up. Good, I could use a thousand customers. So I hoped this one brought company. Unfortunately, he didn’t. He was the mail carrier and he brought mail.
Probably bills.
I perked down.
Cash Calderon pulled out a calculator and rolled the edge of his tongue over his upper lip while his fingers punched the keypad. The more he punched, the more I worried. The contractor extracted a pad from inside his bomber jacket and tallied up his figures.
“Yikes!” I said as he handed me the estimate. “That’s a lot of zeroes.”
He shook his head. “I know. I gave you the best price I could. But between the materials and the labor—”
“Oh, I know,” I said, patting his arm. “I didn’t mean any offense.” I giggled nervously. “It’s just, well, I don’t know how I’m ever going to afford this.” I tapped the paper with my fingernail. At the same time, I couldn’t afford not to get that leak repaired. “I don’t suppose you have a layaway plan, by any chance?”
I’d only been half joking, so I was surprised when he answered, “Nope. I’m afraid not.” He smiled as he spread a plastic sheet down in the spot where the ceiling tile had caved in earlier. “But I’ll tell you what: You pay me a few hundred dollars a month. Interest free.”
“Really? Do you mean it?”
He nodded. “We’ll call it an installment plan.”
“Oh, Mr. Calderon, that’s so generous of you.” I planted a kiss on his ruddy cheek. “And I promise, I’ll pay you three hundred dollars first thing every month and quicker when business picks up.”
The contractor vowed to get started right away. He’d even offered to patch the holes in the basement wall. Next time I bought a place, if there was a next time, I swore I’d get a complete building inspection. And I promised to give the job to Cash Calderon, who was also a licensed home inspector.
In the meantime, I had a few holes of my own to fill. Only these holes weren’t letting in rain—and probably the furry, clawed critters I was sure I’d been hearing in the attic and walls. No, these holes concerned the mystery of who killed Matthew Kowalski, and why.
I’d start with a visit to his mother’s house. If anybody had known he was in town and what he’d been up to, particularly on the night he was murdered in my own home and place of business, it would be her.
* * *
I shoved the soundtrack to Oklahoma! in the CD player and cruised up Lake Shore Drive. The Kowalskis lived in a small subdivision up the hill near the elementary school. It was a lower-middle-class neighborhood with smallish older homes; most had detached garages.
I parked at the curb and gazed at the house. The small patch of grass was brown, and in contrast to the well-kept yards of her neighbors, Mrs. Kowalski’s yard, in particular the shrubbery, seemed to be suffering from years of neglect. I shut off the car stereo in the middle of Gordon MacRae belting out “Oh What a Beautiful Mornin’.”
Everything might have been going his way, but they sure weren’t going mine.
A petite woman with a stooped back and mousy features answered on the third knock. I hadn’t seen Mrs. Kowalski in ages. The woman looked years older than the one I remembered. The skin around her large brown eyes sagged, and wrinkles spread to her hairline. “Yes?” She clutched the weathered doorknob for support.
The woman at the door wore a thick cotton check-pattern dress in shades of brown, beige, and gray. It was pleated at the waist and buttoned up the front. The sleeves covered her arms completely and the bottom extended to her ankles, revealing only white stockinged feet covered in simple green fuzzy slippers. “Mrs. Kowalski? It’s me, Amy Simms. I went to school with Matt.”
She stared vacantly for a moment. “Art and Barbara’s girl?”
I nodded. “That’s right.” I looked past her to the dark formal living room. “Would it be all right if I came in for a moment?”
She pulled the door wide and I preceded her into the tiny, cramped space. She motioned for me to sit on the sofa. “Can I get you something?” Mrs. Kowalski fiddled with her thin gold wedding band. I remembered that her husband had passed years before. “Coffee? Tea?”
“Nothing, thanks.” I folded my hands on my lap. A giant gray cat rubbed against my shins.
“Pay Dilbert no mind,” Mrs. Kowalski said with obvious love. The big cat lumbered over to a table under the front window, hopped up and curled himself into a ball. Matt’s mother leaned back in an old-fashioned walnut rocker with a pillowed back. Under the glare of the lamp beside her, I noticed that her face was heavily made up.
Silence filled the space between us as I wondered where to begin. She had to be aware of her son’s death. She had to also know that he’d been found murdered in my house and that I was high up on the suspect list.
“You want to talk about Matt,” Mrs. Kowalski said, rocking slowly. Her short gray-brown hair was pulled back sharply over her forehead with a simple brown plastic headband, giving her the appearance of a barred owl.
“First off, I want you to know that I had nothing to do with his death.”
She shrugged and rocked faster. From the worn lines in the carpet, it was a habit of hers. “Never thought you did.”
“Then who?” I said. “Who do you think would do such a thing?”
Mrs. Kowalski shook her head. “No idea.” She grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. “May as well ask old Dilbert here.”
I glanced at the cat. He didn’t look eager to chat. “When was the last time you saw your son?”
“A couple of Christmases ago, I guess it was.” Her feet touched the ground and she stopped rocking. “Yes, that sounds about right.”
It didn’t sound like mother and son had been terribly close. “Did he stay in touch? Do you know where he was living?”
“Down in Myrtle Beach last, I believe he said. Had a job working at one of those amusement parks or something.”
“So you didn’t know he was here in Ruby Lake?” She shook her head in the negative and I sighed. Matt’s mother wasn’t giving me much to go on. “Do you have any idea why he’d been wearing a disguise?”
“I guess he didn’t want to g
et recognized,” she said softly. “Not everybody around here was so fond of him.”
I refrained from commenting. “Can you think of any reason that he might have been in Ruby Lake? And what he might have been doing at my store, Birds and Bees?”
Mrs. Kowalski shook her head and rose stiffly. “If you don’t mind,” she said, “I’m feeling kind of tired now. I’m not used to talking so much these days. Old Dilbert’s not much of a conversationalist.”
“I understand,” I said, following the old woman to the front door. I paused at the threshold. “Did Matt have a girlfriend? Somebody he might have confided in?”
“I don’t have a clue, Ms. Simms. I’m afraid you’d have to ask Matt that.” Her hand went to the doorknob. “But I’m afraid you can’t, because he’s dead.” She grabbed a worn wooden cane beside the door and used it to gently block Dilbert from leaving. “No you don’t, cat. You stay in here with me, where it’s safe.”
I hesitated once more on the front stoop, looking from Dilbert to Mrs. Kowalski. “If you can think of anything that could help—”
“Police already gave me that speech.”
“Of course, it’s just that if you could think of anything, come up with any information that could help uncover Matt’s killer—” I took a step toward her.
She nodded. “I already told Chief Kennedy everything I could when he came by. He’s like you. He asks lots of questions.”
“We all want to find out who killed your son.” I could understand how the poor woman felt. Even estranged, he was her flesh and blood.
A small smile passed her lips, then faded. “I know who killed Matt.”
A frisson ran up my arms. “You do?”
“Sure,” the old woman said, leaning on her cane. “Like I told Chief Kennedy, it was that girl that did it.”
“That girl?” Could Mrs. Kowalski really know who killed her son? “That’s wonderful!” I clapped my hands and Dilbert disappeared from sight. The big scaredy-cat. “Who? Who is she?”
“It was that Kimberly Christy,” Mrs. Kowalski said firmly.
“K-Kim?”
“She always said she’d kill him. Blamed him for what happened to that boyfriend of hers. Even though it happened a million years ago.” She banged the ground with the tip of her cane so hard I expected sparks to fly. “And my boy wasn’t to blame at all!” She sniffed. “I guess she finally got up the nerve to do it.”
The door swung shut in my face.
13
I raced down the road and headed for Kim’s house. My best friend was harboring secrets, secrets that might have something to do with Matt Kowalski’s murder. She was trying to avoid me, but I was not about to let her avoid me any longer.
I slammed on the brakes as a young woman darted into the road pushing a stroller. I recognized her as the woman who’d been in the shop with her family to buy her first feeder. I waved, but she ignored me. I guess she didn’t recognize me all bundled up in my thick coat with my knitted blue skullcap pressed low over my forehead.
I lifted my foot from the accelerator, then hesitated. She had crossed the road now and was heading for the cabins behind the Ruby Lake Motor Inn. That was weird. I didn’t know her name, but I did remember that she’d told me that she and her family had just moved into a house on Sycamore.
What was she doing here? Way across town? I admit, my first thoughts led to prurient notions. Like, maybe a secret assignation. But who takes a baby stroller to an illicit rendezvous?
She rolled up to the third cabin in, hefted the stroller onto the narrow porch, and knocked. I recognized the youngster at the door. A moment later, the man who’d been with her at the store, her husband no doubt, folded up the stroller and carried it inside.
The driver of the car behind me blew its horn and I zoomed off. I hadn’t gone far when a frenetic squirrel jumped out in the road, hopped several steps, then froze. I swerved to the left, veering into the oncoming lane. Fortunately, no one was coming.
Unfortunately, there was a police cruiser pulling out of the bank parking lot. I held my breath and prayed it was payday and the officer was in a good mood. I watched nervously as the police sedan eased into traffic. So far, so good.
Then the ominous sound of a police siren and the glare of its accompanying lights set my teeth on edge. I pulled over to the curb and rolled down my window. A rush of cold air hit my face.
I watched in the side-view mirror as the officer exited his vehicle and approached my van. “Is there a problem, miss?”
I turned to face him, offering up my prettiest smile.
“Oh, it’s you.” It was Officer Dan Sutton, the same cop who’d been with Jerry Kennedy the night Matt had been found. The same cop who seemed to prefer to find me guilty of murder first and ask questions later.
“Hello, Officer Sutton.” I cleared my throat. “Sorry about that.” I wiggled my finger toward the windshield. “Suicidal squirrel.” He glared. I continued. “You know how they get this time of year.” I rubbed the side of my neck. Stress does funny things to my neck muscles. “I think it’s the stale acorns.” Smile.
If Dan Sutton had a sense of humor he kept it well under wraps. “License and registration, please.” He held out a beefy paw. If I’d had a dead squirrel to hand him, he just might have eaten it raw like some wild beast.
“Oh, come on,” I said, reaching into the glove box. “You can’t be serious.”
He was. A few minutes later, I stuffed the forty-dollar reckless driving ticket in my purse and started dreaming about my retirement—someplace warm and sunny all the time—someplace not named Ruby Lake.
I also kept my eyes on the road and sent a mental warning to squirrels everywhere to stay out of my path.
Kim lived on the opposite side of town in a Craftsman-style bungalow with a full-width porch. Square posts rested atop chestnut redbrick piers rising to just slightly above the white porch railing. There was a red flower box beneath the triple attic window, though I’d never known it to hold any flowers or living things of any kind, other than the occasional rooting chipmunk.
She’d maintained the home’s classic color scheme: stone colored weatherboard with white trim and a red door. Kim’s driveway was empty, but she had a single-car garage behind the house, so I wasn’t surprised or concerned that she might be out. Though if she wasn’t home, I was going to try Randy Vincent’s house.
I rang the bell and pounded on the door. This was no time for formalities. Besides, I was hungry. And cranky. And, yes, I needed a cookie. Unfortunately, I’d rooted around in my handbag and come up empty-handed. I try to keep a snack cookie or granola bar for just such emergencies.
“Kim!” I said. “It’s me, Amy!” Like she didn’t know who I was by the sound of my voice. We’d been best friends since middle school. “Open up.” I banged again. “I know you’re in there!” I pressed my ear to the door but heard nothing more than the sound of blood rushing through my veins.
I whipped out my cell phone and dialed her number. I was sent straight to voicemail. I stamped my feet on the porch. “This is ridiculous,” I muttered. Her curtains were pulled tight, but it looked like a light was on inside. I glanced at the neighbors’ houses. Nobody seemed to be watching.
I headed down the driveway and around the back. For as long as I could remember, Kim’s always kept a spare key under a flowerpot off the back porch. It may be a dumb thing to do in this day and age, but Kim can be a bit of a ditz and is always losing things, like her house key.
Besides, in a small town like Ruby Lake, who’d break in? I mean, what are the odds?
I lifted the pot, scooped up the key, and let myself in.
“That’s breaking and entering,” Kim said, looking at me from the kitchen table with a sour expression. She was wearing the same clothes she’d had on yesterday, only now they looked rumpled and smelled of wine. So did Kim.
“I didn’t break anything,” I replied sharply, tossing the key at her. It bounced off her chest and landed on the ta
bletop. “But I can if you want me to.” I grabbed the back of an empty chair and spun it around. “It’s been one of those days.”
Kim’s eyebrows rose and a small smile played across her lips. “Uh-oh. Somebody needs a cookie.” Her face was sallow and her eyes puffy and red rimmed.
“I do not,” I huffed, “need a cookie!” I slammed my butt down in the chair and faced her. “What I need are answers!”
An awkward silence passed between us. The ticking of a big brass spoon clock on the wall seemed excruciating as I waited for my best friend in the whole world to tell me what was going on.
Was she seeing Randy Vincent? Was she an adulteress? Worse, had she swung a wrought-iron birdfeeder hook at Matt Kowalski’s unsuspecting head? Was she a murderess?
After a moment, Kim pushed back from the table with a groan. She rose, crossed to the cabinet, and pulled out a bag of pecan sandies. She thumped the bag down in front of me. “Cookie first,” she said, tapping her foot impatiently. “Answers second.”
I opened my mouth to protest. But I do love pecan sandies. I hadn’t eaten in hours. And these were Keebler. My favorite. I sighed and broke open the bag. The deliciously sweet odor of fresh pecan-and-shortbread cookie wafted upward. Nothing like the smell of a fresh bag of pecan sandies.
I helped myself to a cookie—okay, two—before resuming my attack. “I just came from Mrs. Kowalski’s house.” I filled a glass of water from the kitchen sink.
“Oh, what did she have to say?”
“She says you killed her son.”
Kim snorted. “Matt killed himself.”
I scrunched up my face. “Are you trying to make me believe that Matt hit himself in the back of the head with a birdfeeder hook?”
Kim scowled. “You know what I mean.” But I didn’t, so she continued. “The guy made bad choices in life. One of those bad choices killed him.” Kim lifted her wineglass and took a sip.
I snatched the glass from her and put it in the sink with the rest of her dirty dishes. “We all make bad choices,” I said. “What I want to hear about now are yours.”