“I don’t know if he has any family, to tell you the truth. He’s lived in Boston for the past five years or so, working as a trainer for some college crew team or something. I don’t know if there’s anyone here to speak for him.”
“Taffy Deroue is the obituary editor at the Chronicle,” said McCarthy. “I’ll pass on to her some of the stories you’ve told us today about Ladd. She might want to talk to you when she goes to put together something about him.”
Tisdale nodded and opened the door for us to go. “Thank you for coming today. It was a pleasure to relive some of the good old days.”
I thanked him for his time and followed McCarthy back down the gnome-lined path to the car.
I was all strapped in and McCarthy was just about to peel out from the curb when Tisdale appeared at my passenger-side window. He must have hurried down the path—his face was red from exertion to match his habitually red nose. I ran the window down and he handed me a CD. “Ladd only made two albums when he was touring with his band. This is the second one, which I thought was better than the first. Maybe you could share it with your obituary editor. I don’t need it back. I got a couple extra copies when they came out, to give as Christmas gifts.” He waved off my thanks and stood on the sidewalk watching us drive away.
I turned the CD case over in my hands. It was titled Far and Away, by the Royal Pains. The cover image showed a path winding through a field and over a stone arch bridge. The flip side listed the names of the songs, names like “Shade,” “Lie on My Empty Pillow,” and “Never Again in This Life.” The band consisted of Ladd Foster on guitar, banjo, and vocals, and Penny Morrow on guitar and vocals. She must be the young woman Tisdale spoke of. I wondered if we might be able to contact her to find out more about Ladd and who might want to kill him.
I held out the CD to McCarthy. “Shall we have a listen?”
He glanced at the dashboard clock. “I don’t have time right now. I’ve got a meeting at six thirty. Why don’t you take it home and check it out, and then we can give it to Taffy tomorrow?”
I slipped the disc into my shoulder bag. “What kind of a meeting do you have at six thirty? A dinner meeting?”
He grinned at me. “‘Nosy’ really is your middle name.”
He left it at that, which only served to make me curious. I wasn’t about to let him see that, however. I just smiled and said, “Yup, I come by it naturally.”
He dropped me off at my house and sped on his way, leaving me feeling a bit at a loss. I had, in fact, thought we might grab a bite together and talk about this new picture of Ladd Foster that Tisdale had given us.
I was touched by Tisdale’s obvious fondness for Ladd, even in the face of his perpetual cheating. Outrage over persistent cheating was on my list of possible motives for murder, especially when it came to Patrick Ames. Now I began to question that thought. Could one man really be driven to murder by an offense that another found endearing? It took all kinds, I supposed. Most people didn’t resort to murder, no matter how far they were pushed. The question was, was Patrick Ames the kind of man who could consider murder as a solution to the problem of Ladd’s incessant cheating?
I shook my head and opened the front door to hear the familiar sound of heavy metal music coming from inside. It took me a few minutes to realize the significance of that sound. I hurried inside to see Aileen plugged into her amp in the middle of the living room, facing the TV broadcasting the Phillies game.
I flung down my shoulder bag and waved my arms in front of Aileen to get her to stop playing guitar. “You’re home!”
She played a final crashing chord, and the room rang with the sudden silence. “They couldn’t keep me forever. We’ve got rights in this country, you know.”
“It’s so good to see you!” Aileen looked like she was back to her old self. She was dressed all in black: a tight black leotard that clung to every curve, black leather pants with steel rivets coursing down the seams, and fingerless black gloves that reached her upper arms. Why she needed gloves on this warm summer day was beyond me. Her jet-black hair was moussed into dramatic spikes all over her head and her face was heavily made up with black mascara and eye shadow. The only color about her was a pair of high-heeled red sandals that were the same exact shade as her bright red lipstick.
I was so happy to see her back to normal that it was all I could do to refrain from hugging her on the spot. “What did they say? Why did they let you go?”
She sat down and cradled her guitar on her lap. “They kept asking me what Ladd Foster was to me, and I kept declining to divulge that information. I’m sure I could have held them off until doomsday, but they didn’t get the chance to get fed up with me and kick me out of there. Somebody sent a lawyer over to tell them there was a time limit on holding someone without formally arresting them.” She strummed a few chords. “Was that you?”
“Did I send a lawyer? No, it wasn’t me. Sounds like a good idea, though.”
She snorted. “If I’d known about that time limit, I would have let them go past it and then sued them for false imprisonment.” She shrugged as her strumming sped up. “Still, it’s good to be shut of that place. Your brother spent seven whole months in jail. Two nights was plenty for me.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” We sat without speaking for a minute, thinking of Pete surviving an extended jail stint for drug use. He never spoke of it, but it was now part of his history.
Aileen played a series of crashing chords on her guitar, her way of changing the subject, I supposed. “I missed the ceilidh. Did the band suck without me?”
There was only one right answer to that question. “Pretty much. But the good news is, I’m making Corgi a new kilt. He’ll look really sharp by the next time you guys play.”
“You’re a kilt-maker now? That can’t be an easy thing to make.”
“I’ll figure it out.” I couldn’t stand this small talk anymore. “Aileen, tell me about you and Ladd Foster. I’m trying to figure out who killed him, assuming it wasn’t you.”
She stood up and churned out a blistering guitar riff. I sat quietly, biting my tongue and sitting on my hands to keep from ripping the guitar away from her and hitting her over the head with it. Why wouldn’t she just answer me?
“He’s the definition of lowlife,” she finally growled. “I’m glad he’s dead. We’re all better off without him. I don’t want to talk about him ever again.”
I sighed. “Okay, just answer me one question. Did you put torch fuel into his whiskey flask?”
She glared at me. “If you need to ask me, you don’t deserve an answer.” She threw her guitar over her shoulder and marched out of the room.
I dropped my head in my hands. I supposed I could have been more subtle with my question, instead of essentially asking Aileen if she was a murderer. I was unlikely to get another chance to bring up the subject. When I went upstairs after supper, Aileen’s door was closed. I knew better than to disturb her.
I lingered in the doorway of my workroom, looking over my projects. I still needed to finish raveling the fringe on Breanna’s sash and I had yet to start work on the tiny tartan bows for her headpiece. Then there was Corgi’s kilt. I wasn’t expecting the tartan fabric for another day or two, but I could work up a muslin to get some practice on making the pleats. I tried to avoid pleats when I could because it was always very time-consuming to get them spaced just right. With the plaid tartan fabric, there would be no room for error. Some practice might be a good idea.
But not right now.
I closed my workroom door deliberately and headed for my bedroom. I curled up in the padded rocking chair in front of the bricked-over fireplace and cracked open Over the Sea to Skye. I was transported to Paris, where Stu and Catherine ditched their group of conspirators and headed off on their own to a monastery in Alsace, looking for Bonnie Prince Charlie’s ring. I could feel the tension building as I read. T
he stakes were increasing for Stu, even as he appeared to be falling in love with Catherine. I found myself liking Stu a lot, so Hart’s admonition not to take it personally when things happened to Catherine made me nervous for the two of them.
Finally, I realized this wasn’t a book to read under the covers at night unless I was prepared to keep going until I finished it at three thirty in the morning. Then I would have to stay up the rest of the night hoping no international intrigue was going to assail me in the staid little town of Laurel Springs. I laid the book aside. It was already eleven thirty and I had accomplished absolutely nothing all evening. As I drifted off to sleep, I found myself thinking about Morris Hart, and wondering if I would run across him again.
And who was McCarthy having dinner with anyway?
Chapter 10
I woke up the next morning ready to get my hands on some tartan fabric and start making a kilt. But I had to wait until the mail was delivered.
The morning was cool and sunny, but the weather forecast was for rain starting around lunchtime. I decided to start my day off with a walk and save my sewing for the rainy afternoon. Neither of my housemates was around. Pete was already off to work, and Aileen was still sound asleep, so I stepped out by myself. I strolled down the shady streets adjacent to Cramer’s Pond, and then, on an impulse, I hopped on the bus to the Commons, just a short bus ride away.
The Commons was a pedestrian mall created by blocking off a few downtown streets, bricking them over in a decorative pattern, and installing wrought-iron lampposts and benches to give it an old-fashioned aura. The shops on the Commons leaned heavily toward scented candles, stained-glass creations, and expensive couture kinds of clothing that someone like me could never afford. My custom-made historical sewing business would fit in nicely on the Commons, but I couldn’t afford the high rent for a storefront either. Maybe someday…
Even if I couldn’t afford to buy, I always loved window-shopping on the Commons. I indulged in that passion without shame. I did have a bit of an ulterior motive, however, as I headed for Letty Overby’s antique shop. I was looking for a good gossip, and if Letty couldn’t provide that, nobody could.
The bell jangled as I entered Letty’s shop, Treasures of Yesteryear. The shop was filled to bursting with antiques of all descriptions, from the crowded shelves of jewelry and bone china to the racks of vintage clothing to a jumble of wooden barrels and iron plows in the corner. Despite the open window, the shop smelled dusty and musty. It was a pleasant mustiness, however, evoking old comic books and Grandma’s faded felt hats, more than dirt and decay.
Letty bustled out from the back room, dusting her hands on her slacks and calling out a cheery hello. She added my name to her greeting when she noticed who had entered her shop.
“Daria, how good to see you! Out for a stroll on this fine, sunny morning? We’re supposed to get a deluge by this afternoon, you know.”
“Yeah, I thought I’d grab some sun while I can get it.” I fingered a few of the antique textiles spread out on a wide shelf. “Do you have any handkerchiefs I can look at? I need a few more to use as christening bonnets.”
Letty reached under the counter and pulled out a box overflowing with handkerchiefs of every description. If I couldn’t find a nice batch for some future christening bonnets, there was no hope for me.
I sifted through the piles, pulling out some possibilities when I saw them. “Looks like you’ve gotten back into the swing of things after the Highland Games.”
Letty leaned both elbows on the counter, a sure sign she was ready to gossip. “I don’t know about you, but I lost money on that venture. I’m not sure if I’ll do it again. Those booths were so expensive, even with the two of us splitting the cost.”
“Yeah, but think of the experience. I sold a bunch of tartan bow ties and I had a great time. That was worth it in my book.”
“Well, I suppose the exposure itself was worth it. Some people go out of their way to avoid walking on the Commons, for fear they’ll get sucked into spending some money or something. But I have had some new customers as a result of the Games.” She pointed to a handkerchief I’d rejected. “That one is half off. Guess who came in this morning, looking to sell some jewelry?”
I placed the handkerchief firmly in my reject pile. “No idea. Anyone I know?”
“Ryan King. You know, Gillian’s father. He just left, as a matter of fact. He brought in these pieces of jewelry.” She indicated a tray containing an array of necklaces, dainty bracelets, and even a wedding band and engagement ring. “He said they belonged to his wife and he couldn’t bear to have them in the house any longer. He didn’t know how to get rid of them until he saw my booth over the weekend.”
“No kidding.” I bent over the tray and fingered the jewelry. “Did he say what happened to his wife?”
“Well, of course I had to ask him. If there was a nasty divorce or something, he might not have had ownership of the jewelry to begin with. The last thing I want is a lawsuit for selling items that rightfully belong to someone other than the seller. So I asked him.” She picked up a stray handkerchief and placed it on my yes pile. “Want to know what he said?”
“Yes!”
She smiled and folded up a few more handkerchiefs. Then she leaned on the counter once more. “He said she died two years ago, when the family lived in Cleveland. I said that must have been a terrible tragedy and he said, and I quote, ‘you have no idea.’ So you know me, I asked him if it was cancer or what. She must have been a fairly young woman, with a fifteen-year-old daughter. With younger women, it’s usually cancer. He didn’t want to go into specifics, poor man. He just said it was a terrible shock, and when the investigations were over, he couldn’t have gotten out of town quicker. He’s been in Laurel Springs for two years, no more.”
I stood still, the handkerchiefs forgotten. “He said that? ‘When the investigations were over’? What investigations? That’s not a typical thing to say after someone dies.”
“Hmm, good point. I didn’t think about that. Maybe she died in a car accident.”
Or maybe she was murdered. I thought about Gillian’s reaction when I said her father had never killed anyone, right? Maybe he had. The very thought gave me a chill. “Did he mention his wife’s name?”
Letty shook her head. “He clearly didn’t want to talk about her.”
I sifted through the necklaces, hoping to find a locket with a picture or a name. I came up empty, but I did find an engraving inside the wedding band. It read, “Ryan and Melissa, till death do us part.”
“Look, her name was Melissa.” I held the ring in the palm of my hand. “You’re not really going to sell this as an antique, are you?”
“Well, people do buy wedding rings, if you can believe it. I suppose they’re cheaper than a brand-new ring from a jeweler. It’s a bit harder to sell one that’s personalized like this.” She studied my face. “You have some objection to my selling this?”
I stroked the ring gently, feeling like I should call it “my precious.” “I was just wondering if he’d given any thought to Gillian. You would think a girl would want her mother’s wedding ring, especially if she died in tragic circumstances.”
Letty considered the ring. “I have no way of knowing whether he consulted with his daughter.”
I laid the ring down on the tray with the rest of Melissa King’s jewelry. “Maybe you could just hang on to all this stuff for a few days before you put it up for sale. If Ryan comes in and asks why it’s not displayed, you could tell him you had to send them to the cleaners or something.”
“Or I could just ask him straight out if he might want to save these things for Gillian. I don’t mind asking those kinds of tough questions. I could call him up right now and tell him I wanted to make sure before I sold any of it.”
I laid a hand on her arm, afraid she was about to pick up the phone and do just that. “Maybe just
hang on to it for a bit. I’d like to talk to Gillian to see what her feelings about her mom are. I’d hate to stir up Ryan’s grief if Gillian doesn’t even care about her mother’s things.” I placed my pile of handkerchiefs on the counter. “Let me talk to Gillian and I’ll get back to you about the King family jewelry.”
Letty gathered up my pile and began punching buttons on her old-fashioned gilded cash register. “I’m in no hurry to put these things out.” She waved a hand at her display cases, filled with vintage jewelry. “There’s plenty for people to choose from.” She held up one of the necklaces, a delicate silver chain strung with beads that looked like garnets. “This one would look perfect with your complexion.”
I couldn’t help but agree. “Tell you what: if Gillian has no interest in her mother’s things, I’ll buy this one for myself.”
Letty laughed and laid it back with the rest. “Don’t feel like you have to, of course. But you couldn’t find a prettier necklace to pick up the depths of your eyes.”
“You are without doubt the best saleswoman in town.” I paid for my purchases and waved on my way out.
I’d spent a good forty-five minutes in Treasures of Yesteryear, so I figured it was time to head home and get to work on my sewing. I only had to wait a few minutes for the next bus, which drove up just as the raindrops began to fall.
By the time the bus let me off on my street, the few drops of rain had become a deluge. It was only one block from the bus stop to my house, but I was still wet to the skin by the time I dashed through the front door. I threw down my bundle of handkerchiefs and ran upstairs to change. I was just coming out of the bathroom with a towel around my wet hair when the doorbell rang.
When I got to the front door there was no one there, but a big package sat on the doorstep. I ripped it open to reveal four yards of heavyweight wool in the Ancient Guthrie tartan. Time to make a kilt!
* * * *
I grabbed a quick bite for lunch and then holed up in my workroom to get started on Corgi’s kilt. Usually, the first step in sewing is to wash the fabric, to preshrink it before running up the seams. I’d never had the experience of having a garment come out all puckered from shrinking around the stitches after the first wash because I religiously adhered to this important step. But not today. Technically, wool was washable, but only if you wanted to shrink it into felt. That wasn’t my intention. Once Corgi’s kilt was finished, it would be dry-clean-only.
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