Crack Of Death (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 3)

by Jeff Shelby

  Lila snorted. “I don’t need luck,” she told me. “Especially with Greta Hedley out of the way.”

  ELEVEN

  I gasped, out loud.

  If Lila noticed, she didn’t let on. She marched back to her door, pulled the screen door open, stepped inside, and then slammed her front door shut.

  Had Lila Bartholomew just gloated over the fact that Greta was dead? And, more importantly, might she have had something to do with it?

  I turned to Carol. Had she heard the same thing I did?

  Tears were streaming down her face, leaving wet trails through the powder dusting her cheeks. Her nose had turned an alarming shade of red and her lips quivered as she struggled to maintain her composure, especially now that I was looking at her.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. It was a stupid thing to ask, as she clearly wasn’t, but I didn’t know what else to do.

  She brushed at the tears streaking her face. “I’m fine,” she said, nodding. “I just…”

  “You’re Greta’s friend, aren’t you?” I asked, gently.

  She nodded again.

  “Declan is a friend of mine,” I told her. “He mentioned that he stopped by your house yesterday. I’m so sorry about Greta.”

  She sniffled. “You’re the one who found her, right?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  She dug into the pocket of her khaki walking shorts and produced a handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes, then wiped her nose. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just…I think I must still be in shock that…that she’s gone.” She drew in a shaky breath. “And then when Lila said…”

  I reached out to touch her arm. “She was very insensitive,” I told her.

  I didn’t add that I was immediately suspicious of the woman who’d expressed such glee over Greta’s demise. As far as I knew, the only people who were aware that Greta’s death was now being considered a homicide were me, Declan, and the sheriff. The last thing Carol needed was this additional detail to deal with.

  But, I thought, she might have some useful information, about Greta and Lila and their contentious relationship. Gunnar had laid the foundation, telling me what he knew, but if anyone might have additional details, I figured Carol would be pretty high on the list. And since I was now being considered a suspect, at least by the addled sheriff, I figured the more information I could arm myself with, the better.

  “Would you like to go grab a cup of coffee?” I asked Carol.

  She looked at me with watery, red eyes. She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “I think I would like that.”

  We made arrangements to meet at the Wicked Wich, and five minutes later, we were both parked on the street in front of the tavern and heading through the door.

  It took a minute for my eyes to fully adjust to the dim lighting, but I spied Mikey behind the counter, adding cheese to a couple of burgers sizzling on the grill. Dawn was behind the bar, too, filling glasses at the soda dispenser. She looked up when we entered and nodded at us. No smile, no welcome. Typical Dawn.

  Two of the booths were filled, but there was one in the far corner that was free and I nudged Carol in that direction. Dawn raised an eyebrow as we bypassed the bar for the booth but she didn’t say anything.

  Carol slid on to one of the benches and I took the other. Dawn appeared a moment later to take our order.

  “Just coffee for me,” I told her.

  She looked at Carol.

  “The same for me, dear,” Carol told her. “Oh, and maybe a plate of French fries.”

  I made a concerted effort to keep from wrinkling my nose. Coffee and French fries?

  Dawn nodded and walked away, returning a minute later with a carafe of coffee and two mugs.

  “Creamer and sugar,” she said, motioning to the box of packets on the table.

  I found a packet of powdered creamer and shook it into my coffee. Dawn had neglected to bring us spoons to stir it with, but I wasn’t going to call her back. She’d probably yell at me.

  Carol reached for her own creamer, grabbing several packets of sugar, too. She dumped several into her cup and then took a long, slow sip.

  “I’m sure this has been hard on you,” I said, opening up the conversation.

  Carol set her cup back down. “It really has,” she said, nodding. Her eyes welled with fresh tears.

  “Had you known Greta long?”

  She stared at the cup sitting in front of her. “Years,” she said. “But we only became good friends a couple years back.”

  “Oh?” I said, taking a sip from my own mug.

  “I used to be a runner,” Carol told me. “Ran 5ks and other races all the time. But then I had my knee replaced about three years ago and had to throw in the towel. I needed something to keep me busy, a new hobby, and I decided to give quilting a try.”

  Dawn reappeared and set a basket of steaming French fries in front of Greta. “Anything else I can get for you ladies?”

  We both shook our heads and she slapped the bill on the table and pivoted away. I knew she wouldn’t be checking in on how the food was, and I knew we wouldn’t see her again until we went to the bar to pay the bill.

  “And how did you like quilting?” I asked. The only needlework I’d ever attempted was cross-stitch and I’d failed miserably at it.

  Her eyes lit up. “I loved it,” she said as she grabbed the bottle of ketchup already on the table. She squirted it over the entire basket, being careful to cover every fry.

  “It must have been quite the change, going from running as a hobby to something that is a little more sedentary.”

  She popped a fry in her mouth. “I thought it might be, too. I was actually pretty hesitant about trying it, for this very reason. But, you know, it’s an awful lot like a race.”

  “How so?” I asked. I didn’t think there were timed quilt competitions. Were there quilt races I was unaware of?

  “Well, with quilting, you sort of have to work your way up. You start small—easy, less intricate stitches—before working your way to the more complicated ones. Similar to races and starting with shorter distances, you know?”

  I nodded. I could see that.

  “And then finishing a quilt,” she continued. “Now, that’s like a marathon. It takes time. Commitment.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  “And the mental energy needed,” Carol said. She smiled. “The concentration that is required is tremendous.”

  “It sounds like you found a great replacement for running,” I said. And I meant it.

  “I really did,” she said. She ate another fry, then licked the ketchup off her fingers. “And Greta was instrumental in helping me. She used to offer a free beginner class at the library in Winslow. Once a month, the first Friday morning. I went to a few and we just…clicked. Pretty soon, I was going over to her house and we would spend hours quilting together, especially in the winter months.” She paused, swallowing back tears. “She taught me everything I know.”

  I nodded sympathetically. I was sure it was hard to think about and talk about her friend in the past tense. I hadn’t lost a friend close to me, but I wasn’t fooling myself. At my age, I knew these were situations I would be facing soon. I thought about the friends I’d left behind in Arlington, the same friends I’d gone back and visited just a few weeks earlier. We were all in our forties and fifties, and so far, life had been kind to us, No major illnesses to contend with, all of us in relatively good health. But all that could change on a dime, especially as the wheels of time kept turning.

  “I understand Lila is also a big quilter,” I said. “Were you close to her, too?”

  Carol shook her head emphatically. “No, no one is close to Lila. Well, no quilters, at least.”

  “So she and Greta weren’t friends?”

  Carol actually laughed. “No.” Her eyes narrowed. “They were about as far from friends as you could get.”

  I was about to ask why when a shadow crossed over our table. I looked up to see Soph
ia Rey and Vivian Sumner standing in front of us.

  “Hello, Rainy, hello Carol,” Sophia said, smiling at the two of us. She focused on Carol and her expression changed to one of sympathy. “I heard the news about Greta. I’m so sorry.”

  Carol cast her eyes downward and nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Such a loss,” Sophia murmured. She turned her attention to me. “I didn’t know you and Carol were friends.”

  I knew what she was doing. Fishing for information.

  “No?” I said innocently, offering nothing more.

  I knew she was probably a little irritated that she didn’t know about our “friendship” because Sophia prided herself on knowing every detail about every resident of Latney.

  A moment of awkward silence passed. Carol stared at her basket of fries but made no move to eat them, and I just sipped my coffee and stared at Sophia and Vivian, a polite smile on my face. Vivian looked a little unsure of herself and her eyes kept darting to her friend, as if she were trying to figure out why they were still standing there.

  Sophia finally took the hint. We weren’t giving her any more information.

  “Well,” she said at last, smiling brightly. “It’s nice to see you both.” She nodded at Vivian and they continued to one of the two-top tables and sat down.

  Carol let out a breath. “I hope I wasn’t rude,” she said softly. “I just…Sophia can be a bit overbearing.”

  I heartily agreed. “Not rude at all,” I said.

  Carol returned to eating her fries and I let a moment pass before I started our conversation again. I still had more questions about Lila, questions I needed answered.

  “So Greta and Lila weren’t friends, huh?”

  Carol shook her head. There was a dot of ketchup on her lower lip. “Not even close.”

  I knew I needed to choose my words carefully. I didn’t want to arouse any suspicions by being overly curious, and also I didn’t want to let it slip that Greta’s death was now being considered a homicide.

  “That must have been hard,” I said, sipping my coffee. “Since they moved in the same circles with quilting.”

  Carol nodded. “I can’t tell you what a relief it was when Lila moved to Cape Coral a couple years ago.”

  “Oh? You and Greta were friends then?”

  “Sort of. I’d taken a couple of her classes but we hadn’t gotten close yet,” Carol said. She picked up the carafe and topped off her coffee.

  “So she was happy, then? When Lila moved?” When Carol nodded again I asked, “How did she feel when she found out Lila was moving back to Latney?”

  Carol’s expression clouded. “Well, she wasn’t happy, that’s for sure. No one was.”

  I was getting the feeling that Lila didn’t have very many fans in Latney. Judging by what I’d seen on her doorstep, I could see why.

  “Did she talk about it with you?”

  “Of course,” Carol said. “We talked about everything. She was pretty upset when she heard the news, but then Lila got back here a couple of months ago and things were okay. And Greta had other things on her mind.”

  I poured more coffee into my own mug. “Other things?” I repeated. “Like the quilt competition?”

  Carol glanced up at me. “Well, sure,” she said quickly. “We all have been thinking about that. But I was talking more about George.”

  “George?” I frowned. This was a name I hadn’t heard yet. “Who’s George?”

  “George Weddle. Greta’s ex-boyfriend.”

  TWELVE

  “Greta has a boyfriend?”

  “Had,” Carol corrected me. “Had a boyfriend.”

  She’d finished her basket of fries and pushed it to the edge of the table. Her coffee mug was centered in front of her, her hands wrapped around it.

  Greta Hedley, whom I was pretty sure had been close to eighty, if not older, had a boyfriend. I sipped my coffee and wondered how many questions I could ask about him without sounding too nosy.

  “A boyfriend.” I smiled. “I love that.”

  Carol looked at me. “You love what?”

  “That she had a boyfriend,” I said. “That age wasn’t an obstacle to looking for companionship and love.”

  Carol scoffed. “There was nothing companionable about their relationship.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “There wasn’t?”

  Carol shook her head emphatically. “Those two were like oil and water.”

  “Then why were they together?”

  She shrugged. “No idea. It was the one thing Greta didn’t like to talk about. She wasn’t the type to ‘kiss and tell,’ she’d say. So I don’t know much about their relationship. But I do know their break-up was just about as unpleasant as those things can be.”

  “Unpleasant?”

  “Very,” she said.

  “Can I ask what happened?” I tried to keep my voice as neutral as possible.

  “It was lots of things,” she said. “Little things that add up, just like they do in any relationship. Honestly, I don’t know if they were all that compatible from the start. Oil and water, remember?”

  I nodded.

  “I mean, they had nothing in common. Nothing. Greta liked to read and quilt, and George…he liked movies and golf.”

  I wasn’t sure where she was going. I was pretty sure most couples had different interests and hobbies; I mean, no one wanted to date a carbon copy of themselves.

  “So they just didn’t like spending time together?”

  “Greta hated how much time he spent golfing,” she said. She glanced around, almost as if she thought someone might be eavesdropping. She leaned in a little closer. “George left his clubs in her garage one day—he had a friend drop him off at her house rather than bring him home after golfing—and she ran over his clubs on her way out to the grocery store.”

  I covered my mouth with my hand. If she’d done it on purpose, it was a horrible thing to do. “That's awful.”

  “Greta felt terrible about it,” Carol said. “And she told me that she hadn’t meant to ruin them. But she was angry that he’d been gone all day, and she just sort of lost her temper.”

  I could think of many times I’d been angry with Charlie during our 20-year marriage. Not once had I ever considered destroying his property because I was upset.

  “So George broke up with her?”

  “No,” Carol said, shaking her head.

  I was impressed. George sounded like a decent guy and Greta sounded like the troublemaker.

  “What happened?”

  Carol drew a shaky breath and swallowed a mouthful of coffee, as if doing this would somehow calm her nerves or give her the strength to share what she was going to say next.

  “He…he…” She gulped another mouthful of coffee. Her cheeks had gone a little pale and her hand shook slightly as she lowered the mug back to the table. “He burned her quilt.”

  “He what?”

  She nodded, drawing in another deep breath. “Her winter log cabin quilt.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  She nodded solemnly. “It really was. She’d worked on that piece for months. He tossed it in the bonfire pit.”

  “Was that her entry for the quilt competition?”

  Carol gave me an odd look. “No. This was a quilt she gave to George last Christmas.”

  I frowned. “So, it was his quilt then?”

  “No.” It was Carol’s turn to frown. “I just told you, Greta made the quilt.”

  “Yes, but you said she gave it to George for Christmas.”

  “She did,” Carol said. “But it still belonged to her. And he burned it. Tossed it into the bonfire.”

  I could tell she was upset by what had happened, but I wasn’t following her logic. If Greta had given the quilt to George, it belonged to him. And he could do whatever he wanted with it…including cutting it up or bleaching it. Or burning it.

  “So is that when they broke up? When he burned the quilt?”

  “That was the f
inal straw,” Carol said. “Greta was furious. All that hard work, up in flames.”

  Literally up in flames.

  “Well, it sounds like their break-up was for the best,” I said. “All things considered.”

  “Absolutely,” Carol said, nodding in agreement. “But George didn’t seem to think so.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She glanced around again and then leaned in even closer. “He wouldn’t stop coming around. He had second thoughts about the break-up and wanted to get back together. But Greta wasn’t having it.”

  A light bulb went on in my head: dim at first, but I knew that if I turned the right knobs, it might grow a little brighter.

  “Greta wasn’t interested in reuniting?”

  “Not in the least,” Carol said firmly. “She was very focused on quilting and the competition coming up. She was quite upset with how often he was calling and coming around. And…” Her voice trailed off.

  “What?” I asked.

  Carol’s hands tightened around her mug and when she glanced up at me, her eyes were full of apprehension.

  “I’m pretty sure she was afraid of him.”

  THIRTEEN

  “Afraid of George?”

  Carol nodded.

  “Because he burned the quilt she gave him?”

  “Well, not just that,” Carol said. Her hands were still wrapped around her mug. “He just wouldn’t leave her alone after the break-up. I saw it for myself.”

  “You did?” That light bulb moment from earlier was helping to form a new theory, or at least a new possibility. Could George somehow be responsible for Greta’s death? “What exactly did you see?”

  Carol hesitated, her eyes darting from me to the mug she was holding.

  I tapped my fingers on the table. When a minute passed and she still didn’t respond, I wondered if she was suddenly having second thoughts talking to me. She barely knew me and in less than half an hour, she’d spilled a lot of details about her deceased best friend and her love life.

  “Just…things,” she demurred.