Nickeled and Dimed to Death

by Denise Swanson

  “That would be great,” Noah said, but he shot me a look that conveyed he wasn’t convinced of Poppy’s optimistic scenario.

  “Yes, it would be,” I agreed. But, like Noah, I wasn’t nearly as certain as Poppy was about a positive outcome, and I fully intended to continue trying to find someone, or several someones, to offer up as an alternative suspect. Right now, Elise’s soon-to-be ex-husband and his mistress were at the top of my list.

  CHAPTER 12

  * * *

  I woke up Monday morning with a nagging question going round and round in my head. If Willow Macpherson had been the Whitmore’s pet sitter, what had happened to that pet after Elise’s murder? No one had mentioned an animal. Not that I would have expected Chief Kincaid or Boone to be talking about the dead woman’s cat or dog.

  Still, if it had run away in all the excitement, was anyone even aware it was missing? From what Noah had reported yesterday, I doubted that Colin had gotten custody of the pet. Heck, it sounded as if he barely got custody of his own underwear.

  Reassuring myself that even if the cat or dog wasn’t with him, Colin had probably rescued his pet after the police were finished processing the scene, I tried to put the thought out of my head. But the picture of some helpless animal locked, starving, in the house or wandering the neighborhood haunted me through breakfast and as I drove to work.

  The dime store didn’t open until noon on Mondays, but I used the morning to fill gift basket orders. I especially liked the privacy when I was designing one of my more erotic creations. Today I had dual baskets to make for a couple getting married next Saturday. One was for the bachelor party and the other for the bachelorette bash. I had challenged myself to find items for both baskets that the pair could use together.

  Each basket would also include my trademark: the perfect book for both the occasion and the person receiving the gift. Since the matron of honor and best man had told me that the bride and groom were enthusiastic amateur chefs, I selected The New InterCourses: An Aphrodisiac Cookbook for him and Fork Me, Spoon Me: The Sensual Cookbook for her. Nestling his volume on a black velvet bathrobe and hers on a red satin nightie, I stepped back to admire my work. The baskets needed something more.

  Scanning the potential items, I fingered each possibility. Finally I selected a box of chocolate-covered strawberries, a lacy apron, and high heels for her basket, and a can of whipped cream, a pair of silk boxers, and a chef’s hat for his. As I was deciding which one should get the edible body paint and which should get the lickable massage oil, my phone rang and I dove to answer it.

  I was relieved to see Boone’s name on the little screen. I’d been waiting all morning to hear if he was out of jail, and with each passing minute I had felt less and less hopeful that he’d been freed.

  “The prosecutor didn’t press charges.” Boone’s weary voice came out of the tiny speaker.

  “That’s wonderful.” I sank into the chair behind the old kitchen table I used as a workbench. “So, you were released at one a.m.? Why didn’t you text me right away? I’ve been worried.”

  “Sorry.” Boone’s tone was resigned. “The police had a lot of ‘trouble’ finding my paperwork. Tryg had to threaten them with a lawsuit in order to get them to actually let me go.” He sighed. “I think Chief Kincaid had told his officers to keep me on ice while he tried to persuade the prosecutor to change her mind.”

  “I wonder why he’s so convinced you’re the murderer.” I didn’t believe Poppy’s claim that it was all about her father’s crusade to punish her by destroying her friends. “Is there anything you haven’t told me about you and Elise or the situation?”

  “Listen. Let’s get together and talk about it all tonight,” Boone said, ignoring my question. “We still need to find out who killed Elise, because I’m sure the cops aren’t through with me. But right now, I need a shower, some decent food, and sleep.”

  “The dime store closes at six and Gossip Central is dark on Mondays, so how about Poppy and I come to your house around seven?”

  “Perfect.” Boone yawned. “Do me a favor and get in touch with Tryg at the B and B. He should be there to hear everything, too.”

  “He’s staying in town?” I was surprised that a high-priced attorney would stick around when there wasn’t currently any case against his client. “I thought he’d be heading back to Chicago.”

  “He’s still here.” Boone yawned again. “He said he’d hang out for a while. Either he thinks the prosecutor will file soon or he has the hots for Poppy.” Boone snickered feebly. “Probably both.”

  “Okay, I’ll call Poppy and Tryg, and we’ll all see you tonight at seven.” Since I needed to explain to Boone about Noah’s assistance but wanted to do it face-to-face, I added, “I might ask one other person to come, since he’s helping, too.”

  “Sure,” Boone agreed. “Bring Jake along and pick up a couple of pizzas while you’re at it. I’ve got plenty of beer and wine.”

  Boone hung up before I could correct him, which no doubt saved me a lot of dancing around the truth. While I finished up the erotic baskets and put together one of the baskets that Oakley had ordered—his list of requirements had been waiting for me when I checked my e-mail that morning—I planned the evening ahead.

  It was clear that I had to get to Boone’s house before anyone else so I could explain the Jake/Noah situation to him in private. That would take at least fifteen minutes, so Poppy and Tryg couldn’t arrive until quarter after. And Noah definitely had to be the last one in the door, so I’d tell him seven thirty.

  Having figured out the sequence of entrances, I texted all the people involved and gave them their times. Thank goodness Poppy had thought to ask Tryg for his phone number before we left the B & B yesterday. Once that was accomplished, I did paperwork until it was time to flip on the neon OPEN sign, unlock the front door, and greet Hannah, my part-time clerk.

  Hannah Freeman was a senior at the local high school. She worked for me four mornings and one afternoon a week as part of her vocational ed program. I admired that she was her own person and didn’t even know the meaning of peer pressure.

  Here in Shadow Bend, most of the teens tended toward either the preppy or jeans-and-T-shirt look, but Hannah’s style was unique. I called it Hello Kitty chic.

  Today she had on hot pink spandex leggings featuring the Hello Kitty face peeking out of a faux pocket on the left thigh and a long black top sporting a trompe l’oeil necklace complete with Hello Kitty charms.

  On her head Hannah wore a black knit hat with a white feline face emblazoned on the front. It also had pink ears on the top and braided yarn ending in tassels that dangled down either side of the girl’s cheeks.

  After a few seconds of trying to figure it out on my own, I pointed to the cap and asked, “Where did you get that and what do you call it?”

  “It’s a critter hat.” Hannah reached to take it off. “Do you want to try it on?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Whatever.” Hannah shrugged.

  She and I turned on all the lights, and the place began to fill with the first customers of the day. The hours after lunch and before school let out were usually slow. Often I didn’t see a single shopper from one to three, which is why during the rest of the week Hannah worked mornings. But on Mondays, because the store had been closed for the past forty-four hours, there was always a crowd.

  The excited voices created a cheerful hubbub that wasn’t muted by any acoustical tile or cork matting. Instead the sound of people socializing echoed off the old tin ceiling and hardwood floors. When I bought the place, I also purchased the adjoining building and knocked out the shared wall, which had doubled the interior space, but I had tried to keep the character of the original variety store intact.

  Hannah and I worked steadily, helping customers find items, cleaning up messes created when people rummaged through our carefully arranged stacks of merchandise, and, my favorite, ringing up purchases on the old brass cash register. Its disti
nctive ding always made me smile.

  At quarter to two, the dozen or so members of the Knittie Gritties, a knitting club that met at my shop, started to trickle in. I gladly provided them with the space, and—as with the other craft groups that met at the dime store—I gratefully reaped the benefit of their purchases. In addition to buying the materials for their projects from me, they also bought refreshments and any other bits and pieces that caught their eye.

  I welcomed the participants, then walked them to the crafting alcove. Generally, I didn’t hang around during the club’s meeting, but today I was hoping to hear some gossip about Elise Whitmore and her murder, so I stayed.

  For the scrapbookers, quilters, and sewers, I set up long worktables, but when the knitters, crocheters, and needlepointers held their meetings, I hauled out the comfy chairs and ottomans.

  When the group had first started meeting at my store, I’d been surprised by the participants, figuring it would be mostly little old ladies. But the ages ranged from early twenties to nearly ninety, and there was even one man. Interesting how often we’re wrong when we try to pigeonhole people.

  I greeted Irene Johnson as she plopped into the seat next to me. She was a new addition to the group, and this was only her second time attending. Irene kept house for several individuals in town, and Noah had mentioned that he was now one of her clients, as well.

  She was a tall, solidly built woman, and it was clear from her stoic air and calloused hands that she worked hard to support herself. Cleaning up after other people wasn’t an easy way to make a living, and I sympathized. After buying my store, I finally understood the saying “Nickeled-and-dimed to death.” If it wasn’t one expense, it was always another.

  Irene and I chatted for a few minutes; then I asked her, “Did you hear that Elise Whitmore was murdered over the weekend?”

  “Sure.” Irene rummaged in her knitting bag. “It was all over the news.”

  “Did you know her?” I kept my voice low, but the others were busy getting their materials ready and not paying any attention to us.

  “No.” Irene shook her head. “She didn’t do much business in town. She even used some fancy cleaning service from the city rather than one of us locals.”

  “How silly.” It seemed to be a common practice of the Shadow Benders who worked in Kansas City to spend all their money in KC, even when they could get the same items or services cheaper and/or better locally.

  Excusing myself, I got up and wandered over to Vivian Yager, the founder of the Knittie Gritties and the owner of Curl Up and Dye. I particularly wanted to talk to her because not only was her beauty shop a hotbed of gossip, but she was also Vaughn Yager’s aunt. She had raised him after his mother passed away, and I figured if he’d confided in anyone about Elise’s marital problems, it would be her.

  Vivian embodied all that was great about a small town. She had a sparkling personality and a heartfelt smile. She’d grown her little group of knitters from three or four to more than twelve, and welcomed the new additions as if they were old friends.

  I leaned one hip against the wall near her chair and said, “How’s Vaughn doing? I understand he and Elise Whitmore were good friends.”

  “He’s devastated.” Vivian didn’t question how I knew about her nephew and the dead woman. This was a small town. Eventually everyone knew everything.

  “Did you hear that the police released Boone St. Onge?” It had dawned on me that Vivian was a good person to spread the news about my friend’s innocence. “Turns out the prosecutor declined to press charges against him.”

  “No, I hadn’t heard.” Vivian ran her finger over the embroidered daisy pattern on her knitting bag. “But I’m not surprised. Boone’s too sweet a guy to do something like that. The cops probably just wanted a quick answer and didn’t care if they got the right person.”

  “The whole situation is so awful.” I pasted a shocked expression on my face. “I can’t believe we’ve had a murder like that in Shadow Bend.”

  “It is downright scary.” Vivian clanked shut the round metal handles of her bag. “To think that someone is breaking into people’s houses and killing them. I guess I’d better start locking my door.”

  “Absolutely,” I agreed. “Is it true that Elise was getting a divorce?”

  “Yeah.” Vivian tsked. “Her husband, like so many other men, just couldn’t keep it in his pants.” She arched a brow at me. “Speaking of men, how’s that hunky U.S. Marshal of yours?”

  “He’s doing great. He’s returned to duty,” I answered noncommittally.

  “In St. Louis?”

  “Uh-huh.” I nodded, then brought the subject back to the murder. “Do you know who Elise’s husband was messing around with?”

  “Nope. Elise refused to tell Vaughn who she was.” Vivian slipped the point protectors off her needles.

  “I wonder why,” I murmured. “So Vaughn never knew the name of Colin’s lady friend?”

  “Right.” Vivian gave me a strange look. “That’s what I just said.”

  “Sorry. My mind must have wandered.”

  “No problem.” Vivian patted my hand.

  After checking that she had everything she needed for her group, I returned to the front of the store. The after-school crowd would be in soon, and I had to make sure the soda fountain was fully stocked and ready for the onslaught. I’d found out the hard way that making hungry teenagers wait for food was never a good thing.

  While Hannah and I made sundaes and milk shakes and doled out candy, I kept an eye on the front door. Luckily, except for the kids and the knitters, there were no other customers, so both my clerk and I could concentrate on feeding the adolescent masses.

  Just as we got done serving the last of the teenagers, the Knittie Gritties took a fifteen-minute break. For five dollars each, I provided coffee, tea, and a selection of cookies and pastries. Payment was on the honor system—the group members deposited their money in an old cigar box—so after putting out the cups, plates, utensils, napkins, and goodies, I went over to the front register. I sat on a stool with my laptop on the smooth marble counter and surfed various online rare-book sites, looking for titles I could use for current and future basket orders.

  When the Knittie Gritties finished their treats, they strolled past where I was sitting as they headed back to their corner. Generally, I blocked out their chatter because most of the conversation between members was about their projects, their children or grandchildren, and the weather—an always fascinating topic in rural Missouri. But today I listened in, and as the last pair drifted by, I was rewarded.

  “What do you think about that murder over the weekend?” the youngest member of the club asked Addison Campbell, the only male Knittie Grittie. “Do you think we should be scared that some serial killer is running around town, or is it someone she knew?”

  Addie, as he was known, owned and operated the Shadow Bend Pawn Shop and Jewelry, which was a fertile field for the local grapevine, so he usually had the lowdown.

  “My money’s on her husband.” Addie laid a giant paw on the tiny brunette’s arm. “I heard the lawyer was released and nothing is missing, so in my book that leaves Computer Boy as the prime suspect.”

  Addie was a huge man with multiple tattoos. Rumor had it that he had ink in places most men couldn’t stand a single needle prick. I admit it: When he’d first joined the club, my preconceptions had reared their ugly heads. I had been shocked that a guy had signed up, especially one with tats, earrings, and a shaved head. That he’d arrived on his Harley had really startled me.

  But Addie had explained that his anger management coach had suggested the hobby and that working with the needles and various fibers soothed him. Now as I approached him, I had to smile at the T-shirt he was wearing. Against a gray background was a picture of two green skeins of yarn and the words REAL MEN HAVE BALLS.

  The young woman nodded, then said, “But why would Colin kill her?”

  By this time, the twosome was nearl
y out of earshot, and I quickly rounded the counter and followed them back to the craft alcove. I ducked behind shelves and displays as I went, and then hid next to a rack of scrapbooking accessories once they reached their destination.

  “He might have been banging everything in skirts,” Addie said, his voice disapproving, “but Elise was really screwing him royal in the divorce.”

  “How’s that?” the brunette asked as she settled back in her seat.

  “Not only did she sell all his possessions; she emptied their joint accounts, canceled their mutual credit cards, and then tried to get him fired.” Addie grunted as he dropped into the chair.

  “But eventually Colin would get his share.” The woman picked up her needles. “When I went through my divorce, my husband tried to take everything but the judge ordered him to give me my cut.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to wait.” Addie concentrated on executing an intricate stitch, then added, “Or maybe for some reason he couldn’t wait.”

  Hmm. I narrowed my eyes. Addie had a good point. Had Elise’s husband needed something she was keeping from him so badly that he had to kill her to get it?

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  It was almost closing time before I had a chance to check my text messages. Poppy and Tryg had confirmed that they’d be at the meeting at Boone’s that night, but Noah hadn’t replied. It was a shame there wasn’t an app that allowed me to tell if my text had been read. Then I would know if he was just too busy to check his phone or if he didn’t want to come but was too much of a wuss to tell me no.

  Granted, it would be an awkward situation for both men, and I sympathized. However, if Noah truly wanted to be back in my life, he and Boone would need to bury the hatchet. I just hoped it wouldn’t be in each other’s skulls—or in mine, for that matter.