Nickeled and Dimed to Death

by Denise Swanson

  “How are you feeling otherwise?” Noah asked. “Any dizziness, fainting, lightheadedness, nausea, or blurred vision?”

  “No.”

  “Lack of concentration, fatigue, depression, or rapid breathing?”

  “Well . . .” Geoffrey smoothed the sides of his black pompadour. “I’m pretty damned depressed that our town has had its first murder since I took office. Elise Whitmore ruined my perfect record.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t be happy about it, either,” Noah commented with a straight face. “That’s if she were still alive.”

  “And Kincaid’s incompetence will end up costing the town a bundle if he doesn’t start looking at someone other than Boone St. Onge as a suspect.”

  “Oh.” Noah rested a hip against the small counter that held the computer. “Why is that?”

  “St. Onge is a member of one of the founding families of Shadow Bend. After the scandal Kern Sinclair caused, we can’t afford another pillar of the community suspected of a crime.”

  “Of course not.” Noah pretended to agree with the mayor in order to keep him talking.

  “Not to mention, St. Onge is a lawyer, so he’ll sue our asses off if he’s not found guilty.” Geoffrey shook his head. “And I heard the prosecutor didn’t feel there was enough evidence to even charge him.”

  “Anything else?” Noah’s posture remained relaxed and his tone casual.

  “I know for a fact there are several other people with much better motives than St. Onge to kill that woman.” Geoffrey pursed his thick, rubbery lips, then blew them out. “Her husband, for instance. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the spouse is the killer.”

  “That’s interesting.” Noah’s tone was encouraging. “But you said several other people. Who else do you think had it in for Elise?”

  “Whitmore’s mistress.” Geoffrey glanced around the tiny room as if he expected the paparazzi to be hiding behind a chair, then lowered his voice. “Did you hear who he was banging?”

  “No,” Noah lied.

  “Me, either.” Geoffrey’s expression was remorseful. “But whoever it was probably thought if she killed the old ball and chain, Whitmore would marry her.” He tsked. “They all want that piece of paper so they can lead you around with a ring through your nose.”

  “Really?” Noah glanced at his watch. As much as he wanted to help St. Onge, he had to wrap this up and start dispensing antihistamines and corticosteroids to the chlorine sufferers in his waiting room. “Are there any other people who wanted to see Elise dead?”

  “Let me think.” The mayor screwed up his face and tapped his jutting chin with a bony finger. “Well, there’s Lindsey Ingram. She’s the woman from the advertising agency Elise worked at. She and Elise were both up for the same promotion, so Lindsey had a good reason to want her competition out of the picture.”

  “How do you know that?” Noah was astounded by the amount of gossip the mayor had at his fingertips. It must have taken an enormous amount of time to gather all the bits of information. Maybe he considered jumping to conclusions his way of exercising.

  “They both pitched a promotional campaign for the town to me.” Geoffrey got up and moved toward the door. “And that meeting was a real catfight.”

  “What on earth does the town need PR for?” Noah asked.

  “To increase tourism.” The mayor looked as if he expected to be praised for his wonderful idea. “There’s a lot of money in the travel industry.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Not at all.” Geoffrey’s stance oozed contempt, and he looked down his nose at Noah. “Although I understand that not everyone is as forward-thinking as I am. Which is why when I was approached to become mayor, I agreed to sacrifice my career and take the position. I knew that I could lead Shadow Bend to greatness.”

  Noah let go the matter of spending town money to attract sightseers, and Geoffrey’s so-called sacrifice, and zeroed in on the key issue. “Even if Elise and Lindsey were competing for the same job, that doesn’t mean Lindsey was willing to kill over it.”

  “Wrong!” Geoffrey jabbed a finger in Noah’s face. “Lindsey said to me, and I quote, ‘I’ll do whatever it takes to get that promotion. I’ll lie, steal, and sell my firstborn if that’s what I need to do.’” The mayor smirked. “Now, tell me. Doesn’t that sound like someone who is willing to commit murder to get what she wants?”

  CHAPTER 15

  * * *

  According to the note Gran had left on my bed the previous night, she’d won big playing the penny slots on her casino bus trip—eighty-eight dollars and fifty-three cents, to be precise. Plus she’d scored a free buffet and a frozen ham, which explained why I could hear her whistling as she cooked breakfast.

  I was relieved that she was in a good mood. Yesterday, before she left on her outing, she’d held me hostage on the phone for half an hour while she lectured me about Noah’s shortcomings and Jake’s virtues. She didn’t normally interfere with my life, but on this matter she’d pretty much decided that Noah had single-handedly started the Iraq war and Jake should receive the Medal of Freedom.

  Therefore, my first problem of the day was to sidetrack her before she asked me if Noah had been with me at Boone’s last night. I’d mentioned my plans to see him, but not why or who else would be there. I also didn’t want her to question me about the Jake situation. She wouldn’t be happy with either of my answers, and I had too much on my mind to come up with lies that she’d accept.

  Because of that, I kept up a steady stream of chatter as I entered the kitchen and poured myself a cup of intelligence from the coffee machine. Unfortunately, I eventually had to take a breather in order to gulp down a much-needed hit of caffeine, and Gran pounced.

  “I should make you get your own breakfast,” she threatened as she placed three sausage links on my dish. “I told you that going to that dance with Noah Underwood on Saturday was a bad idea.” I opened my mouth to protest, but she cut me off. “And when were you going to tell me you had lunch with him on Sunday?”

  “Never,” I muttered too low for her to hear. “Does never work for you?”

  “What?” She peered at me suspiciously, and when I didn’t respond said, “I hope you’re happy.” She turned and grabbed a pan from the stove; then as she spooned scrambled eggs on to my plate she grumbled, “It’s all over town that you’re dating Noah Underwood again.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.” I knew my being seen with Noah would cause some gossip, but I’d hoped it wouldn’t get out quite so widely or quite so soon.

  “It was the talk of the senior bus trip. I told everyone that going to the uh . . .”

  “Fund-raiser,” I supplied.

  “Right, you going to the fund-raiser with him was strictly business.” Gran grudgingly plopped a slice of toast next to my eggs. “But when they brought up your lunch with him the next day, what could I say?”

  “Did they mention it wasn’t just Noah and me? Poppy was there, too, and she and I sat together.”

  Gran ignored my excuse. “What will Jake think when Tony tells him that the minute he leaves town, you’re seeing someone else?”

  I had to bite my tongue to stop from reminding Gran that Jake had stood me up and hadn’t contacted me since his message on Saturday. And that he was probably spending a lot more time with his ex-wife than I was with Noah. Only the fact that I hadn’t told Birdie that Jake worked with Meg, and that I didn’t want to discuss his continuing lack of communication, kept me from mounting a defense.

  Gran took my silence as a victory, and she ordered, “You need to make it clear that you aren’t involved with Noah before it’s too late.”

  I thought about what had happened in Boone’s driveway last night and was afraid that train might have already left the station. What had I been thinking to let Noah kiss me that way?

  Birdie sat down to her own breakfast and continued. “You need to tell everyone who comes into the store today how you can’t wait for
Jake to get back to town and that he calls you twice a day.”

  “So you want me to lie?” Shoot! That had slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it. Note to self: Drink a lot more coffee before having early-morning conversations about my love life with Gran.

  She paused, narrowed her eyes, and swallowed the bite of sausage she’d just taken, then said, “To which part of that statement are you referring?”

  Uh-oh. When Gran started using agonizingly proper grammar, I was in trouble. “Uh, well, Jake doesn’t call me twice a day.”

  “Okay . . .” She drew out the word. “You can leave that bit out.”

  Phew! I really needed to change the subject before she tried to pin me down any more, so I asked, “Who was the bank president when Dad worked there?” I didn’t exactly like this topic any better, but I wanted to know if Max Robinson had been in charge when my father was accused of embezzlement. If I had some idea whether he would hold my dad’s actions against me, I could be better prepared when I spoke to him.

  “Our esteemed mayor.” Gran raised a feathery white brow. “Why?”

  I explained about Elise trying to get her husband fired, then added, “So Boone wants me to talk to the current president, Mr. Robinson, and see how she was attempting to accomplish that feat.” I left out the part about Noah coming with me.

  “Max was the branch manager back then.” Gran nibbled on her toast. “He really lucked out when your father was wrongfully arrested.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Since Kern was vice president, he would have been next in line for president when Geoffrey Eggers decided to resign and run for mayor.” She took a sip of her coffee. “As it turned out, when the bank’s owner demanded the board hire someone local, Max was the only one left for the top position.” She put down her cup. “Considering that Max’s father was a drunk and never held a job for more than a month or two, Max has done all right for himself.”

  “I’m glad someone profited from our family’s misfortunes.” Suddenly, I lost my appetite. I stood, took my half-full plate to the counter, and scraped the remaining food into the compost bin under the sink. “The town sure hasn’t benefited from Eggers as mayor, and the Sinclair name took a nosedive with Dad’s conviction.”

  Leaving my grandmother nodding her agreement, I went to finish dressing and headed for work. On Tuesdays, both the Scrapbooking Scalawags and the Quilting Queens met at the store, and I needed to pick up goodies from the bakery for their breaks.

  The sprinkling of snow we’d gotten overnight was already melting as I turned onto the street that marked the perimeter of the village square. This place was the heart of Shadow Bend. It always reminded me of why I loved my town, and the bandstand was my favorite part. The eight white cast-iron columns framed my memories of summer concerts, and the decorative arches that linked the pillars made me remember gazing up through their intricately carved curves, seeing the never-ending blue sky, and realizing that the world really was a place of boundless possibilities.

  As I did six out of seven days a week, I cruised the four blocks leading to my store. For some reason a sense of peace settled over me as I passed the familiar landmarks. The first on my route was the Shadow Bend Savings and Guaranty Bank’s Greek revival building, then the newspaper’s unadorned cinderblock structure, Little’s Tea Room in the Queen Anne, and the movie theater with its limestone façade and Art Deco entrance.

  Last was the bakery, and since there was a parking spot right in front, I pulled to the curb. At eight thirty in the morning, there were only a few people on the sidewalks, but I could see through the bakeshop window that the place was packed.

  Shadow Bend had a deeply divided population. The locals, mostly farmers, ranchers, and factory workers, had lived in or around the town all their lives. The transplants were mostly people who had relocated to the area either to raise their families in a wholesome atmosphere or to build McMansions on the cheap land that was available.

  Almost all of the newcomers were willing to face a long, arduous commute into the city to fulfill their dreams. Problems arose when the move-ins felt the town should adjust to them rather than vice versa. Honking your horn at a slow-moving tractor or attempting to take over the PTA in order to stop the school children from saying the Pledge of Allegiance were just a couple of ways in which the Johnny-come-latelies had alienated themselves from the natives.

  Then there was the man who had called city hall and requested the DEER CROSSING sign near his house be removed. He told the road commissioner that too many deer were being hit by cars so he didn’t think it was a good place for the animals to be crossing. The locals had gotten a good laugh over that guy.

  Because I had worked in Kansas City for many years but always lived in Shadow Bend, my goal was to make my store a spot where both sets of people could feel comfortable. Unlike the upscale health club that catered mostly to the newcomers or the bakery where the townies hung out, I was determined to offer a place where the two factions could find some common ground and perhaps build some bridges.

  The craft groups that I hosted were a start. The members included both natives and transplants. Another of my triumphs was the kids who hung around after school. Early on, I had made it known that if I saw any evidence of cliques, discrimination, or bullying, everyone would be kicked out, not just the guilty parties. And since there was no other place in town that allowed the teens to gather, they self-monitored in order to keep their welcome with me.

  As I pushed open the bakery’s door, the enticing aromas of cinnamon, brown sugar, and yeast drew me inside. The half-dozen tables were filled with regulars. The white-collar crowd—real estate agents, insurance representatives, and the like—were reading newspapers or networking as they finished up their morning coffee and pastries. The others, mostly senior citizens, were chitchatting over donuts. One of the latter groups called me over, and an elderly man whom I knew but whose name I couldn’t remember said, “What’s the scoop with Boone St. Onge?”

  “Uh.” While I was relieved that they didn’t ask about Noah and me, I didn’t want to discuss Boone’s situation, either. Then again, maybe they could tell me more about Elise and Colin.

  A sweet-looking old lady who reminded me of Aunt Bee from The Andy Griffith Show tugged at my sweatshirt sleeve. “Is it true that he killed that woman because he wasn’t able to get it up?”

  “No!” I yelped. Where had that come from? “Boone didn’t kill her, not for any reason,” I quickly corrected her. “He had a strictly professional relationship with the victim.”

  “Then what was he doing in her house at eleven o’clock at night?” asked Mrs. Gordon, the mother of Noah’s physician assistant.

  “As a favor to Mrs. Whitmore, he was escorting her to a late-night event in the city.” I paused to think over my next statement—would it help or hurt Boone? Deciding it could be useful to spin the story in a positive direction, I added, “Off the record, she was afraid of her husband, so she wanted her attorney present.” There. I had given them another suspect, and by telling them that something was confidential, it guaranteed that the info would spread faster than caramel poured on top of a hot pecan roll.

  “Colin Whitmore does have a temper,” the first man commented.

  “Really?” I was itching to take notes but knew that wasn’t the approved protocol when participating in a round of Shadow Bend gossip. Like any other game, there were rules that had to be followed. “How do you know that?”

  “I was in the bank once when Whitmore was screaming at one of the tellers about something the poor woman had done to make the computer break down.”

  “Ah.” This was good intel, but I had to get to the store soon, so I needed to wrap things up. Still, I couldn’t resist asking one more question. “I didn’t know Mrs. Whitmore. Was she a nice person?”

  “She didn’t do much business in town. People like that frost my buns.” Aunt Bee’s look-alike tsked. “And she did create quite a scene when she caught her husband
at the motel with his dick out.”

  The mouth on that sweet little old lady continued to amaze me, but I certainly shared her outrage at people who refused to buy locally. Smiling, I said, “It’s sure true that my dime store would be in real trouble without its loyal customers.” I discreetly checked my watch. Quarter to nine. “Who was the girl Colin was with?” Let’s see how much of a secret Willow’s identity really was.

  The group looked at one another, but no one seemed to know. Mrs. Gordon threw her hands up. “I don’t recall ever hearing who she was.”

  “Well, I’ve got to get going and open up the store,” I said, backing away. “It was good talking to you all. Please let all your friends and neighbors know that Boone is innocent.”

  After I picked up my bakery order—an assortment of Mexican hot chocolate cupcakes, peanut butter cup cookies, and browned-butter whole wheat muffins—I quickly drove to the store and started setting up for the day. The crafters began to arrive at the same time Hannah reported for work. I assigned her to the register and drafted a couple of the quilters and scrapbookers to move tables and chairs from the storeroom. Generally, I liked to have everything ready, but I couldn’t afford to hire more help.

  Regardless of how strapped for cash I was, I never regretted buying the business. Not only did it give me the chance to spend more time with my grandmother, but I’d been able to save the place from becoming another cookie-cutter drugstore. When the Thornbee twins, age ninety-one, had decided to sell the five-and-dime, their only other offer had come from a pharmacy chain.

  The twins’ grandfather had built the dime store when Shadow Bend was no more than a stagecoach stop, and, lucky for me, the thought of the business being turned into a Rite Aid or CVS had dismayed them. Which was why they’d chosen to take my much-lower bid.

  Every day when I walked into my shop, I said a silent thank-you to those women. As far back as I could remember, I had always loved this store. When I was six, my father had taken me here to pick out my Brownie uniform and all the accessories. Gran always let me come with her to the store whenever she went in to buy a sack full of her favorite sassafras candy sticks. And the day I turned thirteen, my mother allowed me to buy my very first grown-up book—a Harlequin romance—from the shop’s spinner rack.