by Judith Ivie
Thwarted in both attempts, the stalker had to be murderous by now, so good sense would dictate that I turn the diaries over to the police and advance that theory as quickly as possible, right? On the other hand, my would-be assailant was well on his way to being apprehended, thanks to the quick action of the Glastonbury police, so I had little to fear for the moment. Would it not be more effective, and helpful to Abby’s cause, to wade through the remaining two diaries ourselves and present Lieutenant Harkness with an alternative suspect based on what we learned?
I drove along the Silas Deane Highway to the intersection of Old Main Street and pondered what to do while waiting for the light to change. Straight through would lead me to the police station. A right turn would lead me to the Law Barn. The light changed, and I turned right.
As soon as I rounded the first curve, I could see parking would be a problem today. I remembered that the public hearing on the proposed smoking ban was scheduled for 7:00 p.m. at the Keeney Memorial, diagonally across the street from our offices. Already, the protestors paced the length of the block, cigarettes dangling defiantly from mouths and fingers, signs held high. “Smokers have rights, too,” seemed to be the slogan of choice today, and there were chants and shouts, as well. As I waited behind stalled drivers, most of whom were seeking nonexistent parking spaces, I could see that not all of the noise emanated from the smokers. Those in favor of the proposed ban, including several small business owners, were staging a counter-rally on the opposite side of the street. Several brandished signs of their own, reading, “We don’t need no stinking cigarettes!” and “Kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray” and similarly charged slogans.
At Garden Street I turned left, then right, to tuck my car into the service alley at the back of the Law Barn. Chances were I’d be blocked in before ten o’clock, but I didn’t know what else to do with it. I locked the car doors carefully, selected the two unread diaries from the bag in the trunk, and let myself into the back yard quietly through the gate in the chain link fence. Rhett Butler was already in his pen, gnawing on a bone big enough to be the hip joint of a bull moose. He looked up barely long enough to woof politely before returning to it. Margo and Emma sat on the back stairs, holding Dunkin’ Donuts cups and giggling conspiratorially. No doubt they were comparing notes on the intricacies of dating police officers, if Emma had been out with Rick Fletcher last evening, as I suspected.
“Well, hey, Sugar! My, don’t we look cranky this mornin’,” Margo greeted me. “After my ordeal last night, Emma’s been consolin’ me, and I can’t have you stealin’ her attention with that long face of yours. What’s the matter? Are you and Armando fussin’ again? Now that I come to think of it, what were you doin’ at home when I called you last night?”
But Emma’s attention had already been diverted. One look at my face, and she was on her feet and coming toward me. “Momma?” She pulled me to her in a quick hug, then released me to arms’ length to study my face. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Speaking of ordeals,” I began and launched into a five-minute recap of how my planned trip to the Wethersfield Police Station had ended on the front lawn of the Glastonbury Police Station instead. Halfway through my recitation, Emma relieved me of my handbag and the diaries and pushed me gently onto the stoop next to Margo, who wordlessly handed me the rest of her coffee. As I talked, their eyes grew round, and their mouths sagged open, but they didn’t interrupt me until I had finished. Then they looked at each other and back at me. Emma’s eyes were brimming dangerously.
“Well, shit, Sugar, how am I supposed to compete with that?” Margo demanded. “You have totally upstaged me and just ruined my day. You always were a prima donna, Kate Lawrence,” she flounced, hands on hips.
Emma’s tears vanished instantly as she turned to glare at my old friend, but I roared with laughter. It was just what I needed, and I howled until Emma got the joke and grinned along with Margo. As we collected our cups and books and headed inside, an angry chattering came from above Rhett’s pen. We shaded our eyes and looked into the lower boughs, where Fat Squirrel perched, his cheeks stuffed with peanuts. As we watched, he hurled a shell and scolded some more.
“No worse for wear,” I noted sourly, but Emma was thrilled to see the little fleabag. I had to admit, I was glad to see him, too, albeit with reservations. Even Rhett seemed pleased to see his old adversary and looked up from his bone to pant doggily at the squirrel. Having re-established relations, F.S. scooted down the tree trunk and skittered over to the trash cans, twitching nervously. “Is he about to do what I think he’s about to do?” I asked Emma. She shrugged and turned her hands palm up, and we all trooped inside.
From the lobby the noise from both sets of demonstrators was even more audible, and it was clear that little business would be accomplished today. I, for one, was grateful. Emma retreated to the loft to reschedule the few appointments she had. After that, she would concentrate on the third of Harriett Wheeler’s diaries, while I scoured the fourth one for any possible clue to the identity of Prudy’s killer. Margo would spend the day running interference for us both, with the help of Jenny, who had been dropped off several blocks away and hiked in to work.
Despite all of the tea and coffee I had consumed, my eyes were heavy. I also had a killer headache. I decided to repair to the reading room, which seemed entirely appropriate to the task at hand, and nipped into the coatroom as soon as Jenny went to make some copies. Emma had given me her cell phone, since mine was still in the Wethersfield P.D.’s evidence locker, on which either she or Margo would call me if I were truly needed. “And don’t turn it off!” she admonished me before scooting up to her lair.
I regarded the thing with distaste. It being Emma’s phone, no doubt the thing would ring all day. I located the ring volume control on the side and set it on vibrate, then laid it carefully on the mahogany vanity. I assuaged my conscience by promising myself to check messages every so often. Before sinking into the overstuffed arm chair with my reading assignment, I swallowed two Advils from the emergency stash and splashed cool water on my face. Then I turned on the table lamp and sat down. I removed the cap from the listening tube so that I could monitor activity in the lobby, in case Jenny needed some help. The phone rang occasionally, but she didn’t seem to be having any difficulty handling the calls.
Hoping my headache would take the hint and leave, I lifted the cover on what looked to be Dorothy Sayers’ The Nine Tailors but was actually volume four of The Wheeler Chronicles, as we had come to think of the diaries. Based on the dates of the first and last entries, this one appeared to cover the period of eight years before Harriett’s death in 2004. I sighed and struggled to focus on the spidery penmanship, which described in self-pitying detail the abuse she had had to endure at the hands of an unnamed neighbor. Apparently, the neighbor encouraged his dog to relieve himself during their regular walks on Harriett’s lawn. I’ll just bet he did, I thought groggily, but pushed on to the next entry and the next.
By the time the ibuprofen worked its magic on my headache, I had slogged through three years of the same sort of petty complaints and was no closer to finding a solution to Abby Stoddard’s dilemma. I decided to reward myself with a little nap before taking on 1999’s entries and fell asleep almost instantly to the continuing chants of the demonstrators outside the Law Barn, which seemed to be escalating in intensity.
When I awoke much refreshed an hour or so later, I picked Harriett’s diary back up to return to my reading. Immediately, the name “Abigail Stoddard” leaped off the page. I pushed myself fully upright and peered closely at the shaky handwriting. The date of the entry was September 16, 1999, almost exactly six years ago. Frank Wainwright had still been alive then and running the Village Diner.
It has become apparent that F.W. and tacky little Abigail Stoddard are living in sin in that man’s abode. This comes as no surprise. One can hardly blame the man in these circumstances, men being the weak creatures that they are. What is terrib
ly surprising is the involvement of M.D. in an apparent ménage a trios, something of which I would not have thought even Abigail capable. How best to deal with this news? Surely there is a town ordinance against so many unrelated people living under the same roof. Perhaps an anonymous letter to the mayor’s office will put an end to this unorthodox and thoroughly offensive establishment. If not, more drastic measures may be required.
I paused to consider who M.D. might be. A physician? Someone with those initials? The only person who came to mind was Miriam Drinkwater, the part-time curator of the Keeney Memorial, but I simply could not get my mind around the possibility of meek, self-effacing Miriam involved in a love triangle with Abby and Frank. Beyond the local business owners here in Old Wethersfield, I was acquainted with only a few dozen of the town’s residents. Perhaps the telephone book would provide some clues. I put my ear to the listening tube to try to determine Jenny’s location, but silence reigned. I eased out of the reading room and went in search of Margo, a phone book, and food, not necessarily in that order. Suddenly, I was starving.
Carrying the diary with me, I headed for the MACK Realty office on the other side of the lobby, but before I got there, Jenny burst through the front door of the Law barn, bringing a wave of chanting voices and honking horns with her.
“Food!” she called cheerfully, undoing the shoulder straps of her backpack and dropping it on her desk. With her usual resourcefulness, she had realized that we were all pretty much trapped in the Law barn until the crowds eased, helped herself to petty cash, and hiked down the street to the diner, returning with an assortment of overstuffed sandwiches and side salads. Margo and Emma materialized instantly, and we fell upon the food like wolves, washing it down with bottles of Snapple and soda from the office refrigerator.
After several minutes of intense chewing and swallowing, Margo, Emma and I sat in a row on the lobby sofa and made sounds of contentment. With our heartfelt thanks ringing in her ears, Jenny scraped together the empty wrappings and trundled a full trash bag out back to add to Fat Squirrel’s pickings for the evening and say hello to Rhett Butler. I took advantage of her absence to show Margo and Emma the diary entry that had captured my attention.
“So what do you think? Who is M.D.?” I asked after each of them had frowned over the entry for a minute. “The only name I can come up with is Miriam Drinkwater, but surely there must be a hundred people in town with those initials. And of course, nothing says the person has to be from Wethersfield.”
“Except that Harriett Wheeler knew this person, and Harriett rarely left her house, let alone Wethersfield,” Margo pointed out reasonably enough.
I could see the wheels turning in Emma’s head. “Just because that awful Wheeler woman assumed there was some sort of kinky threesome going on doesn’t mean there actually was, you know. All we can assume from what we see here is that the three of them were living in the same house. Maybe they had a roomer to help with expenses, or maybe Abby or Frank had a cousin or another relative staying with them for some reason. There are a dozen perfectly proper explanations for the arrangement.” She stopped and looked from one to the other of us. “Don’t you think?”
Margo chuckled. “This child of yours does all right in the logic department, I’m thinkin’. Must have gotten those genes from her daddy.”
I threw my Snapple cap at her. “Well, the only sure way to learn the identity of M.D. is to ask Abby who was living with her and Frank in the fall of 1999, and that’s what I plan to do right now. Emma, did you find anything in the diary you’re reading yet?”
“Nothing, and believe me, I read every nauseating word. What a loser that woman was! I can’t believe she wrote romance novels. There wasn’t an ounce of romance in her soul. She was judgmental and vindictive.” She shook herself and got to her feet. “Anyway, I don’t think any of us has a prayer of getting our cars out of here tonight. The police have their hands full trying to keep a lid on the crowd until the hearing begins at seven.”
“Crowd?” Margo and I asked simultaneously. We all got up and went to the big front doors, which Emma pulled open with a flourish. To our astonishment, the parking area out front was jammed with badly parked cars of every description, and the sidewalk now teemed with angry citizens, all of whom seemed to be yelling. A harassed young officer attempted to reason with two elderly demonstrators who were in each other’s faces, one burly hand flat against each of the men’s chests to hold them apart.
“That looks like Rick Fletcher’s partner from the other night,” I said. “Officer Chaplain or something. I cannot believe how young these policemen are getting to be.”
“Ron Chapman,” Emma said, “and he’s thirty-one. I think I’ll go say hello when he gets these old coots separated. We haven’t had a chance to talk since last night.”
“Last night? You mean this is who you were out with last night, the hot date, if I recall your message correctly? I was sure it was Rick Fletcher.”
Both Emma and Margo gaped at me for a two-count, then collapsed into hysterical laughter. “She thought it was Rick Fletcher,” Margo gasped, holding her sides and wiping her eyes. Emma wasn’t much better off.
“Rick Fletcher!” she hooted, leaning on the nearest car for support. “Wait until I tell Joey that you thought I was on a date with Rick Fletcher.”
“I folded my arms across my chest. “And what’s wrong with Rick Fletcher? I always thought he was an exceptionally nice young man. Obviously, I thought you did, too,” I said, a little miffed and more than a little puzzled.
Finally, Emma took pity on my perplexity. “You really don’t know, do you?” she gasped when she could breathe again. I remained silent but raised one eyebrow. Emma looked at Margo for support. “You tell her. I don’t have the heart.”
Margo straightened out her face and came to give me an apologetic hug. “You poor darlin’, you are absolutely right. Rick Fletcher is a delightful young man and has the makings of an extraordinary police officer, John tells me. He is also gayer than springtime, Sugar.” She gave me a pitying look, then threw up her hands and hooted with laughter all the way back through the lobby to our office.
“Sorry, ‘Cita,” Emma comforted me. “I think it’s a generational thing. Women of your age just don’t seem to have the same radar we do now, although come to think of it, Margo picked up on it right away. Oops! Sorry again.” She gave me a hasty pat and headed out into the crowd.
“Ask Officer Macho there what’s going on with the Wheeler house break-in,” I yelled after her. “The Copelands are getting anxious.” Emma waved in acknowledgment and was gone into the crowd. I went back inside and pulled the doors firmly shut. At this rate we’d have half the town traipsing through the office looking for a bathroom.
At some point during the afternoon, the phones stopped ringing. Emma had never returned from her visit to the good looking Officer Chapman, and Margo had collected Rhett Butler and made her way, however Margo managed these things, to the Copelands’ house on Wolcott Hill Road to review their situation and find out what she could about the investigation. That left Jenny and me holding the fort.
Shortly after five o’clock, I finished volume four of The Wheeler Chronicles where I still sat on the lobby couch and closed the cover. I had found only one additional entry concerning Abby Stoddard and the mysterious M.D., but it was particularly vitriolic. In late November, 2002, Harriett had written,
It has been more than three years, and that filthy harlot continues to live with two men without benefit of marriage to either one. Why this immoral living arrangement is tolerated in a supposedly Christian community, I cannot understand. Now that the Blue Laws that protected us from this sort of thing have vanished along with our sacred day of rest, no decent person can consider herself safe from such abhorrent influences. My continued protests have fallen on deaf ears. I must take matters into my own hands.
There were no entries for the remainder of that year and a good part of the next. When they resumed in late 2003,
they were in handwriting so shaky as to be almost illegible and consisted primarily of complaints about her deteriorating health and the general incompetence of the medical profession. By then, Harriett must have been experiencing symptoms of the illness that had claimed her life two years later.
I stood up and stretched luxuriously, working the kinks out of my shoulders and neck. What action had she taken in 2002, I wondered, and who was M.D.? There was only one sure way to find out. I would have to ask Abby.
“Jenny,” I said as she was extracting a windbreaker and her sneakers from her backpack preparatory to leaving, “when you were at the diner earlier, did you happen to see Abby Stoddard?”
Jenny thought about it as she tied her shoes. “I didn’t actually see her, but she was there, back in the kitchen. Deenie had her hands full trying to take orders and cover the cash register and take-out and everything else, and Abby was trying to help out with the cooking. As a matter of fact, I’m going back there now to give Deenie a hand. She must be whipped by now, and there’s no point in my trying to catch a ride out of Old Wethersfield until that hearing starts at seven, and people move inside off the street.”
That’s good of her, I thought. “Couldn’t Mort help out at the register or something? I know Abby has had a tough time trying to hire a replacement for Prudy, but surely Mort must be able to do something around there besides sweep up and fill saltshakers.”
“I didn’t see Mort today,” Jenny said, getting to her feet and heading for the back door. “Guess he couldn’t make it in with all this traffic. He wouldn’t want to risk getting a scratch on that precious Trans Am of his. I’m going out the back way and cut down the service alley. See you in the a.m.” She hitched her backpack over one shoulder and was gone, completely unaware of the lightning bolt she had tossed at me so casually.
For a few seconds I was too stunned to move. Then I sank back down to the sofa, my head reeling. Mort … Mort … What was his last name? And then I had it. Mort Delahanty. M.D. This could not possibly be a coincidence. The initials in Harriett’s diary, the fact that he owned a Trans Am, were all connected, but how? I wished that Margo and Emma were around so I could hash this all out with them. I needed to make some sense of it before I brought the diary to the police.