I followed him out to the front entryway. “Hey—are you actually taking those with you? What if someone’s taken over her practice? What if they need her notes?”
He shrugged on a jacket. Looking at him still gave me a thrill. The way that one wavy lock of chestnut hair fell over his forehead, the way he moved, the cowboy boots and signature string ties. Today’s was copper beaten into a cactus shape.
But good looking or not, he wasn’t getting my point. Shaking off my oversexed distraction, I repeated, “What if she did take the threat seriously? What if she died before she had a chance to tell anyone?”
“That would be a bit convenient for someone, wouldn’t it? Now I need you to let it drop,” he said. “Those Swensons aren’t to be trifled with. I’ll see you tonight.”
Jaw slack, I watched him stride down the front walk to his car. That rat! The Swensons weren’t to be trifled with? How could he drop a hint like that and then walk away? After talking about the convenient death of a psychotherapist—which would benefit a possible murderer.
Helllllo? Mr. Police Detective, are you paying attention?
Okay, so he couldn’t investigate something unofficial and based on hearsay to boot. His blasé attitude still struck me as odd. At least there was nothing to say I couldn’t do a little digging around on my own. And I knew exactly where to start: Caladia Acres. If my favorite nonagenarian Tootie Hanover didn’t have the lowdown on the Swenson family, one of her many friends would.
After all, I was already taking the Winding Road gift basket over to the nursing home anyway.
Right?
“It’s the third time we’ve had a one-hundredth birthday party this year,” Tootie said, leaning heavily on her silver-headed cane. “God bless modern medicine.”
We were slowly making our way around the large garden in back of Caladia Acres, stopping at each strategically placed bench for a quick sit-down. Two magnolias mirrored each other from opposite sides of the garden, their pinkish white, tulip-shaped flowers waving gently in the breeze. Delicate new leaves had unfurled from the maroon Japanese maples, and a Mexican orange looked ready to burst into bloom any second. Spent tulips waved abandoned yellow eyes, awaiting the gardener’s knife. Bright indigo vinca crept beneath it all.
“Living to a hundred has never been all that unusual, has it?”
“A lot of people died from disease and accidents. But we had to work hard. I think the activity was healthier.”
“Is that why you’re walking more?”
She tipped her head forward. “That, and the yoga classes here seem to help as much as anything else. I stopped taking those arthritis pills they were giving me. More and more problems kept coming up on the news. Seems like anymore the cure is worse than the illness.”
I wrinkled my forehead. “Not even pain pills?”
“Sometimes, when it’s bad. Otherwise I couldn’t get out of bed.”
I winced. Sometimes the arthritis crippled Tootie to the degree that she used a wheelchair.
“So what’s on your mind?” she asked, easing herself onto the next bench. She wore a crisp white shirt with beige slacks and a light blue cardigan to ward off the slight chill in the April morning air. Her white hair coiled in its usual patrician braid on top of her head, and intelligent brown eyes glided over the rhododendrons and azaleas just beginning to bloom. The breeze carried the sweet scent from the white blooms on the evergreen clematis. Everyone else was inside, getting ready for the party.
“Why do you think I have something on my mind?” I asked.
“Don’t you?”
“Well …”
She smiled.
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, fine. Since you know everyone who has been around here for any amount of time, I thought you might be able to tell me about the Swenson clan.”
She looked at me for a long moment. “Tell me why you want to know about them.”
Darn it. But what did I expect from Tootie Hanover? So I told her about Barr finding the tapes at the thrift store and Erin listening to them.
“I wanted to know what she might have heard, so after I took them away from her, I listened to them, too. Turns out they’re the verbal notes of a local psychotherapist.”
Tootie looked alarmed.
“Don’t worry. The therapist didn’t use names. Except one—Swenson.”
Speculation settled across Tootie’s features as she put it together. “Don’t you think you should return the tapes to the person who made them? They never should have left her office.”
“I tried. She’s dead.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Dead.”
“Heart attack, about a month ago.”
“I see. So what is so interesting about the name Swenson? You are not typically a gossipy sort, so there must be something significant that’s driving your inquiry.”
I hesitated.
She waited.
I rubbed my face. “The therapist seemed worried about this person.” My hands dropped to my lap, and our eyes met. “Apparently they said they were going to kill someone and make it look like an accident.”
Tootie blinked.
“In her notes to herself, she didn’t know whether to take them seriously or not.” I raised my palms. “I don’t either.”
“Well. That is a quandary.” Gripping her cane tightly, she prepared to push herself to her feet. “If I sit too long this chill will get into my bones.”
I leapt up and cupped my hand under her other elbow to steady her. We continued on our slow circuit of the garden.
“The Swensons have been in this area for a long time. Dorothy is about five years younger than I am and still oversees the family business. She rules the whole lot of them—sometimes through intimidation, sometimes through fear, and always according to her idea of what’s best for the family. At the same time, she’s fiercely loyal to them all.”
“But not exactly loving,” I said.
“Love has different manifestations. She comes from an era where things were tough and families had to be strong in order to survive.”
“So, how many family members are there?”
“Dorothy had one child, a son named Carl. He died more than thirty years ago, but he gave her four grandchildren first.”
“How did he die?” I asked.
“Someone broke in. Carl had a gun, but the burglar took it away from him and shot him.”
“Oh, wow. Killed with his own gun. Did they catch the guy who did it?”
“The very next day. Anyway, Carl Swenson was married to a very nice woman, but for some reason Dorothy never took to her daughter-in-law. She banned her from the family business, while enticing her grandchildren into it.”
“Enticed? How?”
“Some force of will, though primarily with promises of big money when she dies.”
Ooh. That sounded like motive. Maybe Dorothy was the intended victim. How very English manor house.
Tootie continued. “The daughter-in-law left town, remarried, and lives someplace in Virginia now.”
“And the grandchildren?”
“All four still live in Cadyville.”
“And they’re all involved with Grendel Meadery.”
“Indeed,” she said. “Though in different capacities and to varying degrees. One of them owns the wine shop downtown.”
“A Fine Body. I stop in once in a while to get wine for special occasions.” Otherwise the grocery stores had pretty good selections of everyday grape. I wondered how a little town like Cadyville could keep a wine shop solvent.
“I read an article that said Grendel Meadery had gone international. Turned out that meant they expanded into Canada, but still. How long have they been in business?” I asked.
“Dorothy and her husband started making mead shortly after they were married, and it grew into a going concern. They might not be big all over the world, but Grendel ships all over the country.”
“I’ve had their mead a few times. It’s pretty good. I wonder how t
hey make it.”
Tootie smiled. “You do have an interest in the old ways, don’t you? My folks made their own wine the whole time I was growing up, and then I did, too, for a while after I was married. We didn’t use honey, though.”
“You made your own wine?”
“We made our own everything.”
“Will you show me how?”
“Of course. It’s the perfect time of year for dandelion wine. Be warned, though—you’ll have to pick a lot of dandelions, because we’ll only use the petals. And later in the summer I can show you how to make a lovely elderberry wine.”
“I bet I can get Erin to help me pick the flowers.”
“And I’ll show her how to make ginger ale. It requires a little patience, but it’s easy, and then she’ll have something to drink, too.”
“That’s a good idea.” I’d never thought about making dandelion wine, and I liked Tootie’s comment about how her family made their own everything. I opened my mouth to ask more, then shut it again. Focus, Sophie Mae.
Tucking away my curiosity about wine making, I asked, “How old are the Swenson grandchildren?”
“Oh, older than you are, dear.” She frowned. “At least I think so. The youngest one might be right about your age.”
We’d passed one of the magnolia trees, and Tootie stopped at the bench across the garden from the one we’d sat on earlier. She eased her way onto it, and I settled in beside her. We watched the chickadees and nuthatches pick up seeds from the bird feeder and fly onto nearby branches to crack and eat them. Below the feeder, a half dozen spotted towhees pecked at the fallen bounty.
“Glen. Glenwood, actually,” Tootie said.
“That’s the youngest Swenson? He must be the one who owns A Fine Body. Is he good looking in a pretty kind of way? Dark hair, dark eyes, slight build?”
“That sounds like him.” Tootie shifted, trying to find a bit of comfort on the hard bench.
“He’s not so much with the mead making, then, other than carrying it in his store.”
“Oh, I bet he knows his way around that meadery. Dorothy would have made sure of it.”
“She sounds like a bit of a tyrant.”
Tootie grimaced. “She … well, she knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to go after it.”
“What about the others?”
“The oldest of the lot is Victoria. She divorced her first husband and took back her maiden name. I believe she kept it when she remarried.” Tootie looked into the distance. “She’s in her late forties. I don’t know what she does at the meadery, but I do remember several years ago I saw her at the Northwest Garden Show in the master gardener’s booth.”
“Does she seem like someone who would go to a therapist?”
“Oh, honey. I don’t know her that well. I don’t know any of them that well. Mostly I just know of them, if you know what I mean.”
“I do.”
She thought. “The next one in line is Quentin.”
“The pharmacist.”
“Yes. He works at Kringle’s Drugs. Has for decades.”
“I know his wife, Iris, through the artist’s co-op. She’s a wonderful quilter.”
“She was ill a few years ago, wasn’t she?” Tootie asked.
I nodded. “Cancer. But last I heard, the chemotherapy worked and she’s still doing fine.”
“Good.” The word was decisive.
I agreed. I’d known too many people, including my first husband, who had succumbed to the disease. “So what’s Quentin’s connection to the meadery?”
“He’s on the board of directors. Other than that, I don’t know. His wife works there, though. She’s a bookkeeper or accountant or some such.” Tootie pushed herself back to her feet, and again I tried to help her without being obvious. She was a proud lady. “There was talk … well, that doesn’t matter.”
“Come on. Give.”
“Sophie Mae, there is information, and there is gossip.”
Fine time for her integrity to kick in. Though it had probably never kicked out.
“The last one is Willa. She’s in her late thirties, just a few years older than Glenwood.”
“And what ‘information’ can you give me about Willa?”
Tootie’s eyes cut toward me, then returned to the path in front of her. “She works at Grendel, too. Something to do with keeping the production line going.”
Pink spots high on her cheeks.
“And?” I couldn’t help it. I’d rarely seen Tootie so discomfited.
A pause; then, “She prefers the … company … of women.”
“So she’s a lesbian?”
Tootie stopped and turned toward me, chin high, one hand on her hip while the other still held her cane. “Yes. She’s a lesbian.”
I tried not to smile. Cadyville was a provincial, largely white-bread town, and Tootie had lived here all her ninety-one years. “Do you have a problem with that?” I asked gently.
Her head jerked back a fraction of an inch, and she blinked. “Well, no. Not when you put it like that. It’s probably a more sensible approach than some of the fool things girls and boys get up to.”
I coughed and changed the subject. “How is it you know everyone in the family?”
“Oh, I don’t. Of course, I’ve encountered each of them over the years, but I only really know Dorothy. In school she seemed so much younger than me, but when you get to be our age, five years is next to nothing.”
I laughed.
Tootie held up one gnarled finger. “You should take into account that everything I’m telling you about Dorothy Swenson’s grandchildren has been filtered through her. She comes up here to Caladia Acres regularly to visit her friends.”
“Brings along that assistant of hers, too,” called a voice from behind us. “Big woman, walks like she’s got a stick up her butt.”
I craned around to see Tootie’s boyfriend, Felix, approaching. Though short and slight, he walked with long, swaggering steps, his arms akimbo. He swooped in front of us and turned, eyes lighting up as they met Tootie’s. He looked so much like a smitten leprechaun that I had to smile.
“Petunia, what are you doing out here? Everyone is getting ready for the festivities. I’ve got the limbo stick all ready to go.”
Tootie directed a wry look his way. “Funny man.”
“Petunia?” I asked. “I’ve never heard anyone call you that except Nurse Dunning.”
“I don’t like to call her Tootie,” Felix said. “It sounds like a fart.”
Sudden laughter boiled out of me, and I struggled to choke it back. Tootie, tall and elegant, smiled indulgently at her diminutive beau.
Love is such a strange thing.
Felix squeezed in between us and took Tootie’s arm. “So what are you two doing out here? Laps?”
“Sophie Mae had some questions about Dorothy Swenson’s family.”
“Oh, Lord. Now what’s Normal gotten up to?”
I moved in front of them, walking backwards as we made our way back toward the common room. Music and muted hoots of laughter hinted at the party already starting within.
“Normal? Is that a name?”
Felix nodded. “An inaccurate one. Normal Brown is anything but normal.”
“Do tell,” I said. “And how’s he related?”
Tootie frowned, but I ignored her. I was fine with a little gossip if Felix wanted to supply it.
“He’s Dorothy’s little brother. Four, five years younger’n her. Brown was her maiden name.”
“So her ‘little brother’ is, like, eighty.” I grinned.
“He’s an evil old goat is what he is,” Felix said. “Lives out north of town on a patch of land next to that Grendel Meadery place. See, he and his sister inherited all that land from their parents. They split it up between them. Dorothy and her husband started the meadery, but Normal subdivided part of his and built five or six houses to sell. Sure made his sister mad when he did that, but he’s always been all about the money.�
�
“Is he rich?”
“I doubt it. Just ’cause you make money don’t mean you can keep it. But those houses? For a while he sold them, owner financed. But he’d only sell to people he knew couldn’t afford the payments. So they’d put their money down and then last a year or two before missing a payment. He’d foreclose and turn around and sell the house again.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s illegal,” I said.
“It’s not,” Felix said. “But it sure made some people pretty mad. Some guy went after him with a gun awhile back, and he got wise. Stopped the scam and sold the houses outright. One of them grandkids bought one of them.”
“Do you know which one?”
“Think it was the pharmacist. You know, ol’ Normal used to be a ’shiner, too, but the market petered out. Rumor is he’s up to something different these days.”
“He made moonshine?”
“Oh, sure. Lots of us did. But he did it on a bigger scale, made real good money from it for a while, selling to the loggers in the fifties.”
I stopped in front of the door. They stopped, too. “Are you saying you’ve had a little experience with the ol’ white lightning yourself, Felix?”
His eyes flicked toward Tootie, and his grin fell away. “Well, not to speak of. Just helped my daddy some, is all.”
She patted him on the arm. “Just as long as I don’t stumble on a still in the Caladia Acres pantry.”
He brightened. “Anyways, now Normal’s moved on from the ’shine.”
“To what?”
“Er, well, I’m not sure I know. Just somethin’ I heard, is all. Maybe he’s got a nice marywanna grove back of his place.”
The door opened and Ann Dunning, Tootie’s favorite nurse, gestured us in. “We’re getting ready to sing.”
I held up my hand. “Thanks, but I’ve got to be going. You have fun.”
Felix, now chatting with someone inside, held the door open for Tootie. She leaned toward me. “Call and update me on your quest.”
“Do you think Dorothy Swenson will be here today?” I asked in a low voice.
“I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“Any chance you might ask her if any of her grandchildren are in therapy?”
She pressed her lips together. “I simply cannot imagine she’d share that information.”
Wined and Died: A Home Crafting Mystery Page 3