“Oh.” Jane attempted nonplused. “Well. I’ve been working on it awhile now but—”
“You’ve never done it before!” I hissed. I was about to explode.
Jane opened the door and slid in quickly under the yellow tape, knowing I’d have to follow her to kill her and I was definitely feeling the sentiments as I slipped in behind her. I eased the door closed and surveyed the surroundings.
Jane joined me in my introspective. “Boy, that red is ugly.”
Ugly wasn’t quite the right word. Unique would have been better. The color was not my first choice. There was a touch too much orange in the hue. What made it worse was unfortunately the rest of the room followed the same pattern. The bed sheets, cover and pillows carried a patterned red tone with added greens, whites and browns. The window trim was a darker red and there were wide mahogany blinds to keep out the glare of the sun. Mahogany dressers matched the head and footboard of the bed. It didn’t really say cozy.
Jane shrugged. “It’s different.”
“I just never noticed how red this room was.”
“There was a dead body lying across the floor. I’m sure it drew your attention. Still,” Jane whistled, “Can you imagine sleeping in a room this red?”
“No.” I couldn’t imagine ever sleeping in this room. More for my memory of the dead body than the ugly red, which was pretty bad. My eyes narrowed to a dark glare. She wasn’t out of the fire yet but now was not the time. “So, what’s next?” I had to keep her focused.
“We look over the room. See what was missed.” She blinked. “Hey, why don’t you check the bathroom?”
The bathroom? Sure. Why not. Jane began to move about the room as I edged into the small space and grimaced. The walls were wallpapered an overpowering red pattern. And there were red towels, a picture with red accents and red roses in a curved metallic vase. The shower curtain was a cream with red slash sash accents pulled to the sides. Maybe the killer had done Charlene a favor by forcing her to redecorate, which Charlene would consider a necessity now.
I knelt and looked into the shower. Nothing. I looked between the curtain and the sashes, under the sink and through the drawers. Nothing. I took the fake roses out and turned the vase over. I gave it a solid shake. Nothing. Things were not looking up. There was a make-up case on top of the commode. I went through its two levels but the only contents were the usual: eye-shadows, blushes, lipsticks, etc. I slid everything back in and closed the box.
I turned to go out and help Jane when a thought hit me. “Nah,” I muttered with a shake of my head. But still I stopped and looked back at the commode curiously. “You’ve been watching way too many mysteries, girl, I sighed.” I set the make-up case off and pulled up on the lid. It ended up on the red fabric covered toilet lid. I peeked inside.
What do you know? Too many mysteries had paid off. Taped over the back edge was a book stuck inside a plastic bag. Jackpot. This had to be something of interest. I mean, I don’t normally keep my nighttime reading in the toilet tank.
For a second I hesitated. Maybe I should call Gabe, let him deal with this. Then I thought about the fact that the information in that book might help seal Johanna’s fate. I reached in and pulled it out slowly. It dripped steadily down. I yanked a hand towel off the wall and wrapped the book in it, then placed it in my bag. The lid slid on with a slight clang. I winced and went back out into the room. Jane had her head stuck under the bed.
“Hurry up, Jane,” I whispered.
There was a thunk. I cringed as Jane crawled out and glared at me, rubbing her head.
“Thanks a lot,” she muttered.
I ignored her. “Did you find anything?”
She pointed to the top of the bed. Nestled in the sheets was a handkerchief filled with several items: a pin in the shape of a brown lizard, a small porcelain rose the size of my pinky nail, a cheap ring with a glass stone like something a kid might buy for ten cents and a piece of torn brocade fabric that was multi-colored. The handkerchief itself was somewhat sheer with delicate pink roses stitched along its sides.
Jane stood and stretched. “I found the lizard and the ring next to the wall under the headboard. They were pretty tight in the carpet so I’d say they’d been there a while. The handkerchief was down under the sheets near the end of the bed, almost over the edge. When I checked between the mattresses, I found the torn fabric close to one edge. And the rose was under the nightstand on the side of the bed where Rebekah’s body was discovered, laid atop the carpet.”
I tried to hide my smile at her professional recounting. “So we should discount the lizard and the ring?”
“I’m not discounting anything at this point. But I kind of agree. These rooms are cleaned between occupants.”
“Charlene might want to talk to her cleaning crew, if that lizard and ring are a testament to their cleaning skills.”
“Course, they were wedged pretty tight.” Jane studied her nail, “I split a nail trying to pull out that lizard.” She rubbed a finger across the porcelain that had one rough edge. “But from where I found this, I’d say the rose was dropped during Rebekah’s stay.”
I picked up the handkerchief. “The sheets are changed on a routine basis, so this should also have been here since Rebekah showed in town. From where it was found I’d say it was Rebekah’s. What about that scrap of fabric?”
“Caught on a piece of metal by the bottom edge of the bed. I say keep it and see. What about you?” Jane took back the handkerchief with the rest of her booty. “What did you find?”
“A book taped to the inside of the commode.”
Jane’s mouth dropped open. “I scuttle like some little rodent around this place and you find something just taped inside the commode.” Her grin deepened. “Isn’t this great,” she said with a low laugh, “it’s just like the late night mystery movies we watch.”
“Great. Can we just leave now,” I muttered, “before the evil, shadowy figure emerges from the closet?”
“What about her luggage and clothes?”
“Gabe’s not a complete idiot. I’m sure he went through everything in her bags.”
“Sure but he was looking for identification, something to find where this Rebekah Peterson was from and why she was here in Merry Hill.”
I sighed, ignored my running thought that this was useless. What was useless was arguing with Jane. She wouldn’t go peaceably unless the search was complete. So I headed where? Of course, the closet. I had been joking about the evil figure but since this was the scene of a murder, I found myself opening the door with caution. I peeked inside. Nothing but clothes.
Jane ran her hands over the tan luggage and then started to go through the insides. I ran my hands over the hanging dresses and shirts. A search of the pockets didn’t produce anything. I closed the door and went through the dresser. Jeans and t-shirts littered one drawer. Another was filled with lacy panties and bras. Victoria’s Secret.
The girl had expensive tastes, but that was the only thing I had discovered other than the fact that Rebekah Peterson had obviously planned to stay in Merry Hill for some time, judging by the number of clothes.
I looked over the room and then went to look at the writing desk. There was a pack of opened notecards spread out on the desk. I fingered through them. They had a pretty blue hydrangea pattern on them with a dark swirled border and the distinctively curved letter C woven into it along the bottom right edge. Several cards and envelopes were missing from the package.
Who had Rebekah been sending cards to? And why? Maybe she had known someone in Merry Hill. More than one by the look of the package. But why the C? For Cindy? I looked back at Jane, diligently rummaging. “You ready?”
Her head popped up. “Sure. Nothing here.”
We eased back to the other side of the room. Jane opened the door and peeked out. She quickly jerked back and pushed the door closed gently. I glared. “It’s Charlene,” she muttered, “She’s talking to some person in the hall. Must be a guest. They�
��re standing in front of one of the rooms with the door open.”
Great. There went our luck. We sat by the door and waited. Jane tapped the carpet with her fingers. I kept expecting Charlene to storm the room with Gabe behind her, handcuffs ready. After ten minutes, Jane slid up for another look.
She glanced back at me. “It’s clear.”
We crab walked under the tape and stood. The hall was quiet except for the ticking of a grandfather clock standing guard at the end of the hall. I pushed on the exit door and for a moment it seemed to hold. Then it gave and slid open. Jane slipped out and I followed, all the way down the steps. We were standing in the B&B parking lot. It was situated next to the Baptist Church. I was grateful the parsonage was on the other side. I had no thoughts on how to explain to Pastor Joseph why I was sneaking out like a teenager from the back of the B&B so late at night.
We paused beneath the shadows of one of the street oaks. “We can talk in the morning, Jane.” I glanced at my watch. “I’ve got to get home or I’m going to be the one grounded.”
She motioned to the book. “But I want to see what’s in the book.”
“We can look at it tomorrow,” I muttered. I tried to pacify Jane’s glare. “I promise I won’t look at it till you do. Okay?”
“I don’t have kids. You could give it to me,” she whispered back.
Right. Like I was going to hand over any potentially damaging information about the Butterfields for Jane to misuse? This read required my supervision, and quite possibly a need to lock Jane in a closet if the book had too many revealing tidbits. I had a feeling I would need my strength. I leaned close. “I don’t think so,” I said.
I pointed toward the direction of the waterfront. “Bake away. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Jane gave in. She sighed. “Fine. But you better be at the shop bright and early.” She fell into step with me.
Inspiration hit me. “Why don’t you come by the house in the morning? The kids will be gone to school and that way no one will interrupt us.” I shrugged. “The shop can open late for one morning.”
Jane patted the pocket with the handkerchief and nodded in agreement. “That should work.” She didn’t sound all that happy.
Nor did she look happy the following morning when I opened my front door to the sight of her scowling face. “Good morning,” I said with a smile, “I made fresh coffee. Follow the scent.”
“I told you I wouldn’t get any sleep,” she grumbled.
She looked the part. Her fair was frazzled, little curls standing out in all directions like she’d gone to bed with her hair wet. Jane’s clothes looked rumpled as if she’d slept in them; a fact I mentioned.
Her scowl deepened. “I got up early to get ready so that I could come over early, and then fell asleep on the couch.” Her look dared me to laugh as she followed me into the kitchen, throwing her purse on the table.
I kept my chuckle silent as she poured herself a cup. Dude came in and settled down with a sigh, his nose between his paws as his eyes flickered from one of us to the other. Comet had found a warm, sunny spot near the windows in the den and hadn’t moved to investigate anything.
Jane settled herself into a chair by the table, one leg tucked under her. She reached over, rummaged through her purse and brought up the handkerchief with its contents from last night in a zipped plastic bag. Upending it, the contents came sprawling out onto the wood surface. I set the book near the articles and sat down beside her. I’d taken it out of the plastic and now one could see that the book was leather and worn. Jane opened it up. The name Cindy Peterson was on the first page. The name was faded. The ink slight blurred.
Jane whistled. “Wow. This is Cindy Peterson’s.”
I nodded. “It looks like a journal of some kind.”
Jane turned the next couple of pages till we came to the first signs of writing. July, nineteen-eighty six was sprawled near the top.
I leaned back. “Jane, Cindy Peterson must have kept a daily journal of her life. Rebekah had to have found this among her mother’s personal effects after she died.”
Jane mused. “And this book is about Cindy’s life during the time she was in Merry Hill?”
I flipped the page and leaned over to read. “Actually, at the start of this one Cindy was already in Merry Hill working for the Butterfields. This first day talks about a tea party held by Elenora Butterfield. It doesn’t sound like Cindy thought highly of her. Listen to this, ‘Ms. Fancy Pants told me to make sure the glass room was in perfect readiness before the ladies arrived this afternoon for tea. I don’t care who she thinks she is. Tom’s so much nicer to deal with. I almost wish I worked in the fields with him. At least I get to see him early and late in the day’.”
Jane whistled again. “You’re right. Doesn’t sound like she and Elenora got along very well at all.” She grinned. “Hey, why don’t you ask her about it next time you’re up at the big house?”
I threw her a sour look. “Why don’t you?” I sighed and tapped the page. “Now pay attention. Let’s find out all we can from this before we go asking questions.”
Jane stared at the open book. “Then the reason Rebekah had this one with her and had it hidden must mean that it highlights who her father was. It sure sounded like Cindy and Tom Butterfield were on good terms. I mean, she called him by his first name. Who calls their boss by his first name – especially a Butterfield boss?” Jane reached over and flipped the pages to the end. “This ends in September of eighty-six. Wow. Cindy Peterson must have had sets of these things.”
“Either that or eighty-six was a big year,” I mused. I turned the book back to the front and started reading. “As for Cindy and Tom’s closeness, we really only have Cindy’s written words on it. We have no clue whether we’re reading truth or emotional mush put to paper.” Jane and I were crouched close, our heads nearly touching as we read. Three pages into it, I came to a sentence that read, ‘went out with ‘L’ last night; met again by the cistern’. I wrinkled my brow. “Did anyone mention an ‘L’ to you yesterday?”
Jane slowly shook her head. “Actual names would be more helpful.”
I continued reading. Forty-five minutes and twenty-five pages into it, Cindy had added an ‘S’ and ‘M’ to her flowery record. Busy girl, I thought.
Jane sighed. “Why can’t people just say things plainly?”
I groaned. It turned into a chuckle as ran my hands through my hair and stretched. “Yes. It would have been so simple if Cindy had forgone all this and simply written a sentence in here stating who the father of her child was. Simple, and a much easier read.”
“A better read,” Jane muttered.
I shrugged. “Cindy couldn’t have had the knowledge that one day people would be riffling through her personal effects. But she must have been afraid someone would read what she had written; hence the code. Most people who keep diaries and journals just want to put their personal feelings down on paper.”
“Hey, anything written down can be read later.” Jane shook her head. “Did you ever keep a diary?”
I rolled my eyes. “Shoot no. I value my privacy.”
“Exactly,” Jane muttered. She turned back to the page before us. “Well, no one’s mentioned an ‘S’ to me either. Do you think the ‘M’ is Michael?”
“Or Richard Moya,” I interjected. “It totally depends on how Cindy decided to code the book. Of course the ‘M’ could be a reference to something completely different.”
“You mean, not a name?” Jane said.
I shrugged and nodded.
Jane shook her head as if to clear it and rose. She hobbled for a second. Obviously her leg had fallen asleep. “That does it,” she grumbled, “I’m going in to the shop. I have something there that makes sense: chocolate.”
I yawned and rubbed my eyes tiredly. “You want me to finish the journal and tell you the path the letters take?”
“Sure,” Jane said sarcastically as she grabbed her purse, “And let me know which letter
provided ‘C’ with ‘R’ so that she had to leave ‘MH’. Why people can’t just say something like normal people,” I heard her mutter as she fished for her keys.
I broke in. “What about those?” I asked, pointing to the articles on the table.
Jane waved her hand in frustration. “Keep them here with the journal. I looked over them last night and just can’t see how they fit.” She slung her purse over her shoulder. “See you at the shop. Don’t burrow too long.”
I nodded thoughtfully, my head already buried before I heard the click of the front door. I spent the next hour reading. By then Cindy had added ‘B’ to her growing list. Did it stand for Tom Butterfield? An interesting face: she’s also mentioned meeting Richard Moya by name, saying she’d met him late at night several times at one of the flower buildings in the fields near Shadow Oaks. It didn’t make sense. Why try to hide the other men’s names and not Richard’s? I had written most of what I’d gleaned on a pad along with any names I’d heard mentioned in connection with Cindy over the past two days. I closed the book, stretched and rose, putting the trinkets back in the plastic.
I walked back to the counter for another cup of coffee but it was thick and dark by now. Not wanting to make another pot, I flicked the switch and washed the contents out into the sink. ‘S’, ‘M’, ‘L’, ‘B’ and Richard Moya. What was the connection if it didn’t stand for a name? It bugged me about Richard. Why just put his name in print? It was as if Cindy hadn’t cared if anyone knew about her relationship with Richard. I threw the dishrag in the sink and turned back to the table. I gathered the stuff together and walked into the den, looking around the room. After a period of perusal, I went to my desk and opened the bottom drawer. Pulling out several items, I shoved the journal and the bag into the back of it and put everything else back in over it for cover. My kids shouldn’t rummage through this, I thought, as I pushed the drawer in and rose. Comet looked up, blinked, and laid his head down as he went back to sleep. I shook my head. I had to have the laziest animals in this town. Walking back into the kitchen, I grabbed my phone and dialed the shop.
When No One Was Looking (Sophie McGuire Mysteries) Page 13