Plucking a napkin from the dispenser on the table, I dabbed at my eyes and blew my nose.
“Brothers or no brothers, Willie, let’s go to the hospital. I’ll give you my answer after I meet my mother. That’s what I came here for, and no one, not even a bad-ass chief of police, is going to stand in the way of me doing that.”
We didn’t head straight for the hospital. After some discussion, we agreed it was best to pursue the watchtower lead while the fair was still going on. Willie had said that even though the corn maze was closed, the Tyler farm was still operating the hay rides and the concessions, with the maze now being a destination of curiosity. He also wanted to do some reconnaissance at the hospital first, to see how difficult it would be for me to see my mother before we barged on in.
I didn’t feel like going back to the scene of the crime, at least not yet. So I begged off, saying I wanted to stay at the inn, maybe even take a nap. The stress of everything was getting to me, wearing me down like the rough side of a cheese grater until my nerves were raw. Before taking off, Willie kissed my cheek and told me to stay out of trouble. How much trouble could I get into taking a nap?
After Willie took off for the farm, I tried my best to settle down, but I couldn’t. At the thought of finally coming face to face with my mother, my emotions were close to the surface of my skin and fairly hummed with worry. I tried to shake it off but was unsuccessful. Finally, I started doodling with my earlier notes on my new extended family. To the rough outline I added an offshoot from Grady and wrote in Cathy Morgan’s name. From her, it expanded to include her brothers, Buster and Clem. Under Cathy’s name, I wrote Troy. Under Clem Brown, I jotted his wife’s name. I didn’t know about the rest of the Brown family, but at this point I didn’t care. Tara and Troy had been the first ones to reach the murder scene. It made me wonder if they had noticed anything peculiar before Tara began screaming. Cathy had said that the police had questioned Troy, but she hadn’t said if it had jarred anything loose.
In another column, I wrote down Ollie and Abby, with a huge question mark. Were they the sweet young couple from California they seemed to be, or were they clever murderers? Saxton did seem an odd place for such an active, vibrant couple to stop for a holiday weekend. But, I reminded myself, they did send me the photos of the crime scene. I doubted seriously if a murderer would do that, knowing or believing that the pictures would end up in the hands of the police. They’d left that morning while I was at the police station, but I couldn’t recall if they said where they were heading next. Maybe they weren’t even from California. Maybe they were assassins who’d set up a meeting in the maze with McKenna for the purpose of ambushing him. Ollie would have been strong enough to drive the spear through McKenna’s body. And, then again, maybe they saw something they’d sooner forget, and that’s why they took off so soon after the incident.
My mind was in overdrive thinking about the possibilities. I had to get out of my room before I went mad and started peeling the quaint wallpaper off the walls. Maybe I should join Willie at the corn maze. I might remember something that could be helpful.
Grabbing my car keys and bag, I trotted down the stairs and headed for the parking lot. Mrs. Friar was in the kitchen tidying up and restocking the staples for her delicious breakfasts. She was humming while she worked. Seeing her, I stopped in my tracks.
“Mrs. Friar,” I said, interrupting her work. “That young couple from California, Ollie and Abby—do you know where they were heading from here? I so enjoyed meeting them.”
Mrs. Friar wiped her hands on her apron and looked up. “Why, yes, I do. They went to the Cape for a few days. Staying at a B & B a friend of mine runs.” Mrs. Friar stood up and took a drink from a tall glass filled with ice and pink liquid.
“Where were they before they came here? Although it’s lovely here, it doesn’t seem lively enough for a young couple like them.”
“So true. We mostly get middle-aged and older couples. They were in Maine before coming here, at an inn run by an acquaintance of mine just outside of Portland.” Mrs. Friar laughed lightly. “Most of us who operate B & B’s in New England know each other, and sometimes that can be very useful. The young people wanted to go to Cape Cod from there, but it being Labor Day weekend, there were no decent vacancies and they hadn’t made reservations ahead of time. Mrs. Howard—that’s the innkeeper in Maine—suggested they come here and see the lovely countryside and wait for the crowds to thin out at the shore. While they were here, I made a few calls and was able to get them in starting tonight at my friend’s place. It’s just a few blocks from the beach.”
“It’s nice that you all refer to each other’s inns.” It seemed clear to me that Ollie and Abby were exactly what they seemed to be. I mentally scratched them off my suspects list.
“Yes, we try to do that. And I’m sure my friend will give them some references for their next stop, if she can.” She took another drink from her glass. “Oh, where are my manners? Would you like some pink lemonade, Ms. Grey?”
“No, but thank you. I’m going out for a bit.”
“Where’s Mr. Carter today?”
“He’s off doing his own thing for a while.”
Mrs. Friar suddenly turned serious. Looking around, she made sure we were alone before she spoke again. When she did, her voice was barely above a whisper. “Ms. Grey, I don’t want to seem as nosy as a mouse in the pantry, but I heard today at church that you’re related to that Littlejohn woman. You know, the woman who killed that man in the corn maze. Is that true?”
Well, slap me silly; what do I say to that? I scanned my brain for something, anything, to tell her, finally deciding on the truth. Anything else would just fuel the gossip flames more.
“Yes, Mrs. Friar, I am related to Mrs. Littlejohn. I came here to visit her. But I don’t believe the police have determined her to be the killer.”
Mrs. Friar came closer. “Well, Mrs. Brown told me that her grandson Troy got quite an eyeful. Seems he’s the one who stumbled upon Mrs. Littlejohn doing the deed.”
“Troy?”
She nodded. “That’s what Mrs. Brown said. Troy was running through the maze like a wild man from Borneo, not minding his Aunt Tara one bit, when he ran smack into Mrs. Littlejohn and the body.”
“But did he see her actually kill him?”
“Mrs. Brown didn’t say—just said Troy hasn’t been the same since. Had a bad nightmare last night.”
After saying goodbye to Mrs. Friar, I scooted out the door to my rental car, my plans changed. I had a new destination—Buster Brown’s vegetable stand.
When I got to the produce stand, there were several customers wandering the orderly displays of fresh fruit and vegetables. The stand consisted of a very large rectangular shed with a roll-up front door—like a garage but wider and more shallow. Vegetables and fruit were neatly separated, each to their own area, and displayed on high wooden tables set at a slight slant to show off the goods. Some of the produce, like apples and pears, was displayed in bushel baskets. Cards with neatly printed prices were attached to stakes and mounted above each item for sale. To the far left was a cash register and a table on which home-baked goods, jams, canned goods, and jugs of cider were offered for sale. The floor was covered with scattered hay. It was a nice and orderly setup that smelled earthy and fresh. Sniffing the air, I could identify almost every distinct item, including the particles of dirt still clinging to the skins of the vegetables. So unlike but more enjoyable than a regular supermarket.
Cathy Morgan seemed to be the only one working the stand. She was surprised to see me but friendly enough, considering I was Grace Littlejohn’s daughter and Clark’s half sister. I guess I hadn’t done anything yet to rile her up, but with my track record, it was just a matter of time.
In between the usual customers who brought bags of produce up to the counter to be weighed and purchased, the stand also appeared to have a casual drive-up feature. While I was there, several vehicles pulled in and called to Cathy
for either a dozen or half-dozen ears of fresh corn. Some just honked. She grabbed some pre-packaged bags from near the counter and trotted them out to the waiting vehicles, explaining to me that these were regular customers who’d called ahead.
“I was driving around the area and thought I’d stop by and say hello,” I told her between customers. “And I wanted to see how Troy was doing. Something like this could be so traumatic, especially for a kid.”
“That’s nice of you, but he’s fine.” Her conversation was cut short by a black, late-model pickup truck that rolled into the parking area and honked two times. Cathy reached behind the counter and dashed out with two bags of corn.
When she returned, I looked wistfully at the bountiful, neatly stacked produce. “Makes me wish I could cook some up for tonight. I’ve eaten two days in a row at the Blue Lobster.” I nodded my head in the direction of the busy restaurant across the street. “I’m in desperate need of veggies.”
Cathy gave me a small smile—the first she’d granted me. “Know what you mean. Working here, I tend to go to the Lobster way too often for meals.”
“Speaking of which, can you recommend a restaurant for dinner tonight? Someplace that serves good salads?”
Before dashing off to serve another drive-through customer, Cathy gave me the name of a place in a mall on the outskirts of Holmsbury, just off the interstate. It was a national chain restaurant. When she returned, I prodded further about Troy.
“I really don’t mean to interfere,” I told her. Who the hell was I kidding? Of course, I meant to interfere. Interfering, to me, was like nail-biting for others—a bad habit I couldn’t break. “But it’s just that I heard that Troy had a bad nightmare last night.”
Cathy shot me a cloudy look. “Who in the hell would tell you that?” Before I could answer, she shook her head roughly, like a dog, and continued. “Argh. That damn Grady. He must’ve told Clark, and Clark told you, right?”
“Actually, I heard it from Mrs. Friar, the woman who runs the B & B where I’m staying.”
“Bonnie Friar? Over in Saxton?”
I nodded.
“Jesus, does the whole world need to know our business?” Cathy expelled an angry gust of air. “My damn mother must’ve been yakking about it at church this morning. It’s a wonder she ever shuts up long enough to take communion.”
“So it’s true? He did have a nightmare last night?”
“Kids have nightmares all the time.”
“I also heard he was the first to come upon the murder scene. Is that true?”
Before she could answer, another car drove in and honked twice. Like a trained seal, Cathy grabbed two sacks of corn from behind the counter and ran out. It was then I noticed that when she came back in, she didn’t put the cash for the sale into the cash register, as she had done with the other customer purchases. In fact, she didn’t put it anywhere. It just seemed to disappear from the vehicle to the counter. Either she was giving the bagged corn away, or she was pocketing the money. But why? It was a family business. And why only that product? Was she stealing from her own family?
Before we could continue our conversation, a large, older woman walked up to the counter with a bag of apples and some pears, peaches, and several zucchini. Cathy carefully weighed the produce and told the woman the total price. The woman paid her. Cathy put the money into the register and gave the customer her change. Before the customer left the counter, a red coupe pulled into the drive and honked once. Cathy excused herself and delivered a single bag of corn to the driver of the coupe. Upon returning to the stand, Cathy did not put any money into the register. Before it pulled out, I checked the plates on the coupe. The vehicle was from New Hampshire.
Alone again, Cathy picked up our conversation without answering my last question. “Don’t worry about Troy. He’ll be fine in time—at least he will be if the police leave him alone. He’s been questioned twice by those jerks from CPAC, on top of the interrogation he went through at the farm. They won’t leave him alone. I’m just short of filing harassment charges.”
“They called me back into the station today for more questioning,” I said sympathetically.
“Every time they question him, Troy gets so nervous, he gets headaches. They’re scaring the shit out of him.”
“Maybe you should take him to a counselor so he can talk about how he feels about what he saw.”
Cathy Morgan looked at me like I was a dunce. “Isn’t that what he’s doing with the cops, talking about it? I think what he needs to do is stop thinking about it altogether.” She rearranged the jars of jams. They were already as neat as a regiment of soldiers lined up for inspection. “What they need to do is arrest that old bag. It’s obvious she killed McKenna.”
“Grace? You really think my mother killed that man?”
Cathy leaned towards me until she was so close, I could smell the shampoo she’d used that morning on her hair. “If she were my mother, I’d run—run like hell, all the way back to California. Today.”
She certainly didn’t try to hide her hatred for Grace Littlejohn, not even from me.
“I get the feeling you two don’t get along.”
“Oh, please. No one who’s ever dated Grady has been good enough for him. Even back in high school.” Cathy laughed. “The only time she had anything nice to say about Linda—that’s Clark’s ex—was after they divorced. The old woman’s a piece of work.” While she talked, she moved over to a display and busied herself rearranging a few plump tomatoes that had the audacity to break rank.
“Once you and Grady are married, you’ll be faced with dealing with Grace for a long time.”
“Hopefully not too long. The bitch can’t live forever.”
Geez, even though my mother and I weren’t close, that comment was way over the line in lack of taste and sensitivity. Cathy seemed oblivious to the fact she’d just told me she hoped my mother wouldn’t live much longer. In fact, she appeared rather gleeful over the notion.
“And what about Clark?” I asked. “There didn’t seem to be any love lost between the two of you either.”
“Clark’s an asshole.” Cathy took a deep breath and looked out towards the Blue Lobster. “Don’t like him, never did.” A hot blush streaked her cheeks. She was either lying or had come down with a sudden fever.
“Clark seems like an okay guy to me. A bit gruff, maybe.”
“Told you, he’s an asshole.” She marched away to attend a newly arrived customer—one who had walked in, not honked like some ill-mannered date.
Cathy Morgan used very colorful descriptions in discussing the people in my family. I wondered what my assigned word would end up being and how long it would be before I was tagged with it, much as a freeway overpass is tagged by miscreants wielding spray paint.
After cashing up the customer and taking care of another drive-through, Cathy came back to where I stood. “Tell me, was Grace such an evil bitch when she was younger?”
I thought about the question before answering, comparing Grace Grey to Grace Littlejohn. “Yes and no. She could be very difficult, but she was quieter about it. She was drinking then, so she was out of it a lot of the time. She didn’t so much interfere with as much as neglect the people around her.”
“I wish she’d go back to drinking and neglecting. Be a whole lot easier on Grady and me, that’s for sure.”
“How does Troy get along with Grace?”
“She doesn’t pick on him like she does the women around her. In fact, she rather favors him. I think he reminds her of Grady, even though he’s not Grady’s natural son.”
A white sedan pulled in and honked. Before trotting out to the waiting car, Cathy grabbed not only a bag of corn but another smaller bag that appeared to hold several yellow and green squash. This time, though, Cathy didn’t come right back in. Instead, heated words could be heard between her and the driver of the vehicle. No one else was in the stand at the moment. Picking up a small hand-held shopping basket, I moved to the outside
edge of the building, closer to the parking lot, and considered some pears while tuning my ears to the conversation. The gist of it seemed to be that the driver owed Cathy money, and she wasn’t giving him the merchandise until he paid up. The amount of six hundred dollars was tossed about a few times. Finally, the car took off, peeling out of the drive, sending gravel like shrapnel in its wake. Cathy returned to the stand, still holding the bags of vegetables.
After tossing in a couple of different kinds of apples, I took my basket to the counter. I nodded at the bag of corn in her hand. “Change his mind?”
“Damn loser. Running a tab and won’t pay. I made it clear, no cash, no produce.”
“A tab for fruit and vegetables?”
Cathy glanced up at me, then looked away. “Sure, for a few locals. People are always stopping by for stuff on their way home and don’t have cash on them. We trust them. Generally, they drop the money off the next day. But that guy,” she jerked a chin towards the road. “He stiffs us all the time. You don’t think of vegetables as being expensive, but it adds up.”
She was about to say more when a battered truck rolled into the side parking area. On the side was stenciled Brown Bros. Clem hopped out of the cab, followed by a German shepherd. He grabbed a box of produce from the back of the truck and headed in our direction. “Got nothing better to do than beat your gums?” he said to Cathy when he reached us.
“Don’t worry, Clem,” Cathy responded, a hand on her hip. “I’m working. This place is neat as a pin, and the customers are happy.”
Clem Brown turned to me and furrowed his brow until his forehead looked like the fields he planted. The dog stood at attention by his side. “This isn’t a coffee klatch. If you’re going to buy the stuff in your basket, then do it and be gone. Cathy’s got work to do.”
Pretty sure Clem had killed my discussion with Cathy, I bought my fruit and said goodbye. As I was leaving, I glanced back in my rear-view mirror. Clem was staring at me, watching me leave. Or was that making sure I was leaving?
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