He laughed. “Rebecca? We’re going out for a little walk. Your mom’s leaving your phone down here.” He set it on the table by the sofa and held Joan’s coat for her.
“Okay.” Rebecca didn’t need to shout for her voice to float downstairs.
As Joan knew hers must have done.
Chapter 11
In spite of herself, Joan enjoyed the brisk walk through the park with Fred, but by the time they’d rounded it a second time, she was chilled through.
“Let’s stop in at Ellen’s for something hot,” she said.
“This early?”
“She won’t mind, and wouldn’t you like to spend a little time with your family?”
He raised one eyebrow.
“Don’t worry, I won’t dump you there and run home to play with Rebecca’s phone.”
“It crossed my mind,” he admitted. “But yes, I’d like to check on my mother, especially.”
Personally, Joan couldn’t imagine Helga remembering anything now if she’d managed to block it out by the rehearsal dinner. Still, you never knew. Memory was a funny business, especially once it became as unreliable as Helga’s. And it would be good to talk to the other members of the family without Bruce’s mother there to make life difficult.
For that matter, she hadn’t had a chance to exchange more than a word with Ellen Putnam and had no idea what Ellen could tell her about what had happened in that kitchen. She squared her shoulders.
“Let’s do it, then.”
Laura welcomed them at the door, her flyaway pigtails now neat french braids. “It’s not lunchtime yet,” she said.
“I know,” Joan said. “But Fred wanted to visit with his family, and I wanted to talk with your mama.”
“Come on in.” She held the door wide. “Don’t worry, we’re keeping my dog in his doghouse while so many people are here.”
“Good idea.” She was glad to see that Laura seemed unaffected by what had to have been considerable hullabaloo in her house on Friday. And she had known Dave. How was she dealing with his death? Did she realize that he’d been murdered?
“Mama’s in the kitchen,” Laura said. “Chrissy and Patty, too. All our guests are upstairs.” She turned to Fred. “Would you like me to show you?”
“Sure,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to get lost up there.”
She wrinkled her brow at him. “Are you teasing me?”
“A little bit. But I don’t know who’s staying in what room.”
“I do.” She led off confidently, and Fred followed.
Joan smiled. Times like this made her think she ought to give him at least one child of his own. Could she face starting over now? Could he?
She pushed such questions to the back of her mind and went into the kitchen, dreading what she’d see there. To her amazement, the room showed no sign of having been a crime scene. Dave had been stabbed here, but she couldn’t even smell the blood. How had they cleaned it up so fast? Ellen and her crew must have done it themselves as soon as they got permission; there hadn’t been time to call in a professional cleaning crew before the rehearsal dinner. Maybe the horror she’d been imagining when she was trying so hard to focus on that dinner really hadn’t existed by then.
“How’re you holding up?” she asked Ellen, who was cutting oranges onto a platter as if it were a perfectly ordinary day.
“Joan!” Ellen smiled a welcome. “We’re doing fine, thanks.” She waved her knife at the other two women in the room, who were slicing meat and cheese onto other platters. No question of letting Helga wield a knife along with them. “You’ve met Chrissy Chitwood, and this is Patty, her mom.”
“Hi, Chrissy, Patty.” Joan looked hard at the older woman. “Do I know you, maybe from a long time ago?”
Patty nodded. “I wondered whether you could possibly remember. You were so young.”
“In sixth grade. And you were in high school—what, a senior?” Dave had been a senior the year their family lived in Oliver.
“That’s right.”
“And you and Dave . . . ” Had they gone steady? Or was she imagining it?
“We dated.”
“That’s what I thought. And now this. I’m so sorry.”
Patty waved it off. “It has to be worse for you. He was your brother.”
Joan nodded, suddenly unable to reply. Finding her voice again, she said, “I’ve been telling myself I can’t think about him until we get through this wedding. I owe that to Rebecca.”
“How is she this morning?” Ellen asked.
“Fine. Fred and Andrew lured her out of bed with fresh sweet rolls.”
“They made them?” Patty looked as surprised as she sounded.
“Fred’s a baker from way back,” Joan said. “Learned it from his dad. Oscar owned a bakery until he retired, but they both still bake.”
“You knew that, Mom,” Chrissy said. “Fred used to bake for Catherine Turner.”
“That’s right.” Patty looked sideways at Joan.
“It’s okay,” Joan said. “I know about Catherine. They had some kind of falling out before we were married. But we’ve ordered Rebecca’s wedding cake from her.”
“She’ll take that directly to the church for the reception,” Ellen said. “Just as well. It would be in the way here.”
“I suppose,” Joan said. She wasn’t going to worry that Catherine might take out old grudges on her daughter.
“She’ll deliver,” Ellen said, as if reading her mind. “It would be bad for her business if she ever were late with a wedding cake. And hers are delicious, not just beautiful. We’ll have some here later, for the buffet.”
Joan’s mind had already moved away from food and squabbles with Fred’s old girlfriend. “I suppose the police have talked to you about what happened yesterday.” She ducked saying more.
“Yes.”
“Could you tell them anything?” Fred wouldn’t like her butting in here, either, but Fred didn’t have to know.
“Not really. Chrissy and I were both setting the table for dinner, and Patty was delayed at home. So only Helga and your brother were in the kitchen after we left the room.”
Joan was horrified. “You mean she might really have done it?”
“Or someone could have come in the back door. With Dave here, I wasn’t worried about leaving it unlocked. Not in the daytime.”
If you only knew, Joan thought. But Dave hadn’t stolen or helped some confederate steal from Ellen or hurt Fred’s mother. In the end it was Dave who was hurt. Never mind hurt—he was killed. Murdered. Why was it so hard even to think murder about her brother?
“Don’t worry,” Ellen said, looking at the door. “It’s locked now. I’m only so very sorry it wasn’t locked yesterday.”
“So you don’t think it was Helga?”
“Oh, no! She thought she was saving his life.”
“That’s what Fred said. She seemed to have forgotten all about it by suppertime.”
“There’s good and bad in everything,” Chrissy said.
Even murder? Joan thought. But she means Alzheimer’s. She nodded.
“Will you eat lunch with us?” Ellen asked.
“I imagine so. I need to clean up a little first.”
“It’s going to be very informal.”
Joan glanced at her watch. Late as it was, was it worth going home? She was still cold. “Any chance you could spare a cup of something hot right now?” It was, after all, why she’d asked Fred to stop there.
“You poor dear!” Patty said. “You’re shivering.” Setting down her knife, she quickly poured a mug of hot coffee. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Black is fine.” Joan wrapped her hands around the mug and inhaled the warmth before taking her first sip. “Mmmm, thank you.”
Patty was hovering. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”
“I’m fine now, thanks.” She smiled at her. “This is just what I needed.”
Patty nodded and returned to her cheese slicing.
/> “I should probably go up and say hello to Fred’s family,” Joan said.
“Might as well,” Ellen said. “You may not get much chance later on today.”
“How was Helga this morning? Did she come down to breakfast?”
“She sure did. Ready to give me lessons in making Swedish pancakes.”
“Did you take her up on it?”
“No, I let her make do with my plain old flapjacks.”
“Nothing plain about ’em,” Chrissy said.
“Maybe sometime when this all dies down, we’ll treat ourselves to an overnight and sample your breakfast.” It held a certain appeal, though Joan doubted that Fred’s sweet rolls had much to fear from the competition.
Fortified by the hot coffee, she left the mug in the kitchen and made her way up the stairs. “Fred?” She didn’t know what room he was in.
He stuck his head around a door and stepped out of the room. “Right here.”
“Everyone okay?”
“Sure. Dad’s taking a pre-lunch nap, and Walt and Ruthie are keeping Mom out of the kitchen. She thinks she ought to be doing something, but we’re not letting her back downstairs till lunchtime.”
“Good.”
“Kierstin’s more than a little interested in walking over to our house.”
She grinned. “I can’t imagine why. You call Andrew?”
“He’s expecting her. She’s putting on her things.”
“Me, too.” Joan zipped her jacket and pulled her hat down around her ears before pulling her mittens on.
“Back soon,” Kierstin called back to her parents as she rounded the door, which Fred quickly closed behind her. Her fine blond hair swung fashionably straight around her shoulders this year, and she carried a warm-looking parka over one arm. “Hi, Joan. Farmor really wants to go down and help fix lunch. It’s all they can do to distract her.”
Farmor–Swedish for “father’s mother,” Joan had learned. And Kierstin called Oscar Farfar.
“Maybe we ought to bring her with us,” Joan said.
“We could try it after lunch,” Fred said. “Right now she’s got a one-track mind.”
“You having a good time?” Joan asked Kierstin on the walk home.
“Not really. I felt cooped up. Thanks for springing me.”
“You’re not usually in the bosom of your family anymore. How’s college?” Kierstin was in her first year at the University of Illinois.
“Oh, it’s okay.” Looking appropriately cool, Kierstin tossed that off. “Actually, it’s great. I’m so glad to get away from Bishop Hill and meet some people.” She pulled on her parka and mittens when they left the house, but let her hair hang free.
“Anybody interesting?”
“A few, but nobody serious.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Way too soon for serious.”
Kierstin tossed her hair. “This time last year, I was feeling pretty serious about Andrew.”
“Were you now?”
“He was really sweet to me. Last night, too.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you again.”
The hair toss again. “You think so?”
“Ask him yourself.” No way was Joan getting in the middle of that one.
Kierstin giggled. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, it’s good you’re coming over now. He’ll have to spend most of his time from now on with Bruce’s sister, because he’s the best man and she’s the maid of honor.” If anyone paid attention to such things these days, Joan thought as soon as she’d said it.
“Oh, I know that! But I met some cute guys last night.”
“I noticed that.” The young people had seemed to be having a good time at the far end of the table. And who knew what they’d done afterward.
“Where all did you go after we left last night?” Fred asked.
“Oh, here and there. Over to the campus, for one thing. But it was pretty dead, with the students gone and all. Andrew wanted to show us around anyway. It’s pretty, but it’s awful little compared to U of I.”
“I seem to remember you were pushing to come here last year,” Fred said.
“Was I? I’m glad I ended up at Illinois.”
Joan and Fred had another of those wordless exchanges over her head.
Andrew met them on the porch. “Kierstin, hi. Glad you came. I couldn’t very well bring you over hill last night. Abandon Sally to her mom.”
Kierstin rolled her eyes, and he grinned.
“Just as well you didn’t,” Fred said. “Sergeant Ketcham came over to ask us questions.”
And then he left, Joan thought. It was good you weren’t here then to cramp our style.
Andrew took Kierstin up to show her his room or his etchings or whatever they called it these days.
“I’ll go check on Rebecca,” Joan said. Ignoring the phone still on the table by the sofa, she climbed the stairs to her daughter’s room.
* * *
Fred, left alone downstairs, called Ketcham. “Any progress?”
“Hi, honey,” Ketcham said. “I can talk for a couple of minutes, but we’re swamped with this murder.”
“Altschuler’s right there, is he?” Fred asked. It was going to be one of those conversations.
“That’s what you get for marrying a cop.”
“You get anywhere on those phone numbers? Joan’s chomping at the bit to try ’em herself.”
“It wouldn’t hurt. But you’re not likely to find anyone home of a Saturday.”
“So I might as well turn her loose?”
“Sure, that would be fine,” Ketcham said. “I’m too busy, but you might try an old friend or two. That’s what you really wanted, isn’t it?”
“Yes, the print shop where Dave worked.”
“He’s open for business. The rest of them, all we got were message machines and voice mail.”
“Altschuler finally out of range, huh?”
“For the moment. He’s keeping close tabs on this one, though. Sure wish you could work it.”
“You and me both. Sorry Mom couldn’t keep her hands off it. Anything else you can tell me?”
“Afraid not. Gotta go now, sweetie.” Ketcham hung up. No way to tell whether he could have said anything more if Altschuler hadn’t returned just then.
Fred picked up the cell phone and took it upstairs. “Knock, knock,” he said outside Rebecca’s door.
“Come on in,” she told him. She was sitting at her desk, pen in hand, and Joan, cross-legged on the bed, seemed to be doing something to the wedding gifts.
“I brought your phone back. And Joan, I cleared it with Ketcham. It’s okay to make those calls. He said most of them won’t be in on Saturday, but the print shop is open.”
“I don’t suppose he told you which number that was?”
“No, Altschuler was standing right there, and it’s clear he’s not supposed to be talking to me.”
“But he did?” Rebecca said.
“Indirectly. Made me sound like his wife.”
She snorted.
“Cops know how to be sneaky when they have to.”
“Thanks,” Joan said.
“My pleasure. But you don’t have a lot of time. Not if we’re going back to Ellen’s.”
She looked at her watch. “He’s right, Rebecca. I suppose I could skip lunch.”
“Don’t!” Rebecca looked flustered. “I mean, sure, if you want to. But the wedding’s just a few hours from now. And then we leave. Can’t you wait till we’re gone?”
“Of course I can. I can use my own phone.”
“Use mine,” Fred offered.
Her face melted. “You’d do that for me?”
“C’mere, woman.” He held out his arms, and she walked into them.
Chapter 12
There wasn’t much time left to make those calls, if they were going back to Ellen’s. Joan pulled the phone numbers out of her pocket and settled down to try them.
“Real
ty,” a pleasant woman’s voice answered. “Our office is open Monday through Friday, eight to five. Please try again at that time.”
“Midwest,” the second one said. “At the tone, please leave a message.”
“J and S Investments,” said the third, also unavailable on a Saturday.
“Cooper Hardwood,” said the fourth, a man. “Highest prices for standing timber. Professional land clearing. Beep.”
She took notes, but at least there was no need to speak to anyone. Maybe Dave had inherited land from their parents—that rang a bell—and he’d been checking into what to do with it. But why long distance?
“Yeah?” said the fifth.
“Oh,” Joan said, startled. “What number did I reach, please?”
“Who’d you want?” the man’s voice growled at her.
“I must have the wrong number.” She ended the call, her heart pounding. That one didn’t sound like a business. Not a legitimate one, anyway. Maybe she really had reached the wrong number. And maybe not. She wouldn’t try twice. He’d sounded too tough to want him annoyed at her. Someone had, after all, murdered Dave.
Shaken, she tried one more number.
“Pete’s Print Shop,” a cheery man answered, not sounding like a recording at all. Finally.
“Dave Zimmerman works there?” she asked.
“Dave’s off till next week.” “This is his sister, Joan Spencer.”
The man sounded puzzled. “He said he was going to your daughter’s wedding. And I thought he called from there.”
“He did. And—I’m sorry, is this Pete?”
“Yeah.”
“Pete, Dave said you were his friend.”
“Thought I was.” She could hear his suspicion.
“There’s no easy way to tell you this.” She fought to steady her voice. “Dave is dead.”
“Dead! He was fine when he left here.”
“He was murdered.”
“Oh my God, lady. The guy survives years in—he told you where he’s been?”
“Yes.”
“So what could have happened to him in your little burg that didn’t happen there?”
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