Haunted Homicide

by Lucy Ness

  “Can we . . .” I leaned close so I could yell in his ear. “Can we go someplace else to talk?”

  “Talk? Sure.” He watched a few more seconds of the action before we walked up the shallow steps between the bleachers. A couple times, he looked over his shoulder so he could see what was going on in the match.

  “We’re going out,” I told the woman behind the tray table. “We might be coming back in. You’re not going to charge us again, are you?”

  Since she never looked up from her phone, I figured not.

  I pushed through the door and out to the blessed quiet of the parking lot.

  “What the heck . . .” I pulled in a stumbling breath and ran a hand through my hair. Yeah, like that might help order my thoughts. “Oz, explain.”

  “The rules? Well, it’s like this. There are two periods in the game and they’re played for thirty minutes each. Each team has one jammer, who has to overlap as many of the opposing players as she can, and—”

  “Not the rules of roller derby!” Yes, I may have screeched. Well, just a little. But the fact that I was being lectured on the finer points of roller derby in a dark parking lot by a man with purple glitter in his hair had a way of unnerving me. “I mean, explain,” I said, holding my arms close to my sides as if that might keep me from going up like a Roman candle. “Why are you dressed like that?”

  Oz grinned. “I didn’t want to be conspicuous.”

  “I’ve got news for you: Purple glitter is plenty conspicuous.”

  “Not around here.” As if to prove the point, a woman whose face was dabbed with purple paint came around the corner and entered the building. She was followed by another woman, old and as skinny as a rail, who was dolled up in a red ruffled skirt, a red boa, and had her hair spray-painted fire-engine red. “I had to look like a fan,” Oz said, his gaze following the purple and red ladies as they went into the building. “I didn’t want Patricia to notice me.”

  “Patricia?” I’m not sure how I hoped it would help, but my gaze shot to the now-closed door. “I know she’s here. I saw her go inside. She’s some sort of roller derby groupie?”

  “Better than that. She’s the Finkinator.” Oz somehow managed to say this like it was the most natural thing in the world, and in that moment, I realized there were depths to him that I had no clue about. “Patricia Fink is the jammer. For the Pirates.”

  My heart stopped, then started up with a bang that shot me backward. “The woman with the skull and crossbones tattooed on her arm? That can’t be—”

  “The Finkinator. Sure. All the skaters have nicknames, see. There’s the Pretty Pirate, who, for the record, isn’t all that pretty. The Purple Monster. Violet Vengeance. That’s my favorite. You have to admit, it is a pretty awesome nickname.”

  It was all starting to sink in, but I still wasn’t clear on the details. “You’re a fan?”

  “Not until tonight.” He grinned and when he moved a little closer, the watery light twinkled against the glitter in his hair. “I did my homework before I came. You know, so I could understand what was going on.”

  “Because . . . ?” As if it might actually urge him toward some explanation that came even close to making sense, I leaned closer.

  “Because I wanted to confirm Patricia’s alibi, of course.”

  “But her alibi was that she was at a Kids Coats meeting.”

  The way he cocked his head spoke volumes. “You know that was a lie, and I know that was a lie. Something tells me we both talked to Reverend Way.”

  “I did. You did. Of course you did. And you knew—”

  “That Patricia left the meeting early the night Ms. Sadler was killed. That it was plenty suspicious since she’s a dedicated volunteer and never leaves early when the meetings are on Wednesdays. So I did some digging. And some following. It’s in my job description, you know. It’s what I do.”

  I was almost afraid to ask. “What did you find out?”

  “That she comes here every Friday night for practice. I took a look around then. And every Tuesday, the Pirates have a match against an opposing team.”

  “Which means Patricia’s story about the Kids Coats meeting was a lie.”

  “Well, there was a meeting. But like Reverend Way told me . . . um, us . . . like he told both of us, Patricia left early the night of the murder. She had to leave early or she’d miss the match, and from what I’ve heard, Patricia has been on the team for years and hasn’t missed one single time. She has an alibi. I came here tonight to confirm it and there was only one way to do that. I had to fit in.” As if I hadn’t noticed the purple shirt or that darned glitter, he lifted his arms and spun all around to give me a good look at his getup. “Fans talk to other fans, and I got here plenty early enough to make a few new friends. They all assured me that the night Muriel died, the Finkinator was right out there on the rink, skating her little heart out.”

  “Well, that explains the bruises,” I grumbled.

  Oz’s eyes lit with appreciation. “You saw them, too.”

  “And wondered. Especially when Patricia said they came from a screwdriver slip when she was fixing a J-trap.”

  The appreciation morphed into wonder and his wonder transformed right before my eyes into admiration of the kind that made my heat skip a beat and my toes tingle.

  “You know plumbing?” Okay, so it wasn’t the most romantic thing a guy ever said to me, but the way Oz’s eyes burned with devotion, I couldn’t help but smile.

  “Plumbing, electricity, a smattering of carpentry.”

  He wound his arm through mine, and together we walked back into the building.

  “Avery,” he said, “I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Oz insisted on staying until the end of the match and as it turned out, I was glad we did because the Pirates won and the Finkinator proved that in addition to being an accomplished skater, she had crazy skills in ramming, whacking, pounding, and crashing that gave a whole new meaning to guts and determination. I was glad Patricia had an alibi for the night of the murder. She was my new hero.

  Oz and I finished that bag of popcorn together, and after the match, we met over at a late-night burger spot. Yeah, the purple glitter caused him to get a couple weird looks from people, but Oz didn’t pay them any attention. I was a kid who grew up with mediums, and let me just say this, they get plenty of weird looks, too. Just like them, Oz rose above the pettiness.

  He was my new hero, too.

  “So . . .” He’d just taken a big bite of his Swiss cheese and mushroom burger, and he chewed and swallowed and waited until I did the same with my cheddar cheese and bacon burger. “You know what I’m going to say, right? I mean, I have to. That’s in my job description, too.”

  I knew it would come to this eventually, and I swallowed my burger along with my pride. “You’re going to tell me I shouldn’t have followed Patricia. You’re going to remind me to mind my own business.”

  “Smart and pretty.” He took another bite of burger.

  “The board asked for my help,” I explained.

  “That’s what I’m here for. To help. In fact, I get paid for it.”

  “To help the board?”

  “To find the truth.”

  “The truth doesn’t belong to just one person.”

  “Nor does trouble.” He set down his burger, the better to point a finger at me in a way that told me I needed to pay special attention to his next words. “There’s a murderer out there.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And murderers don’t like to get caught.”

  “Yes, of course, but—”

  “And people who poke their noses where they don’t belong often find themselves in a whole lot of trouble.”

  He expected me to agree with him again. I hated to disappoint hi
m.

  “I haven’t gotten into any trouble,” I told him, firmly ignoring the memory of hiding out in Tab Sadler’s closet. “In fact, I’ve found out a couple of interesting things.”

  I could tell he was itching to know more. Just like I could tell he didn’t want to ask. He munched a french fry. He called over our waitress and got a refill on his coffee. He finished his burger before he said, “What?”

  Since we both knew what he was talking about, I didn’t ask him to elaborate. “Bill Manby was telling the truth. He’s not a thief. And he was with Brittany Pleasance the night Muriel died, so he’s not a murderer, either.”

  Oz nodded. But then, I suppose he knew all this, too. In fact, he probably knew it before I did. “And then there’s Tab Sadler. You know Muriel cut him out of the family money.”

  Oz’s dark eyebrows rose.

  This was news!

  The realization gave me courage. Maybe I could help out with the investigation after all.

  “I don’t know what he told you, but Tab told me he was home the night of the murder.”

  “Exactly what he told me.”

  “Well, it’s not true. He wasn’t home. He was at the movies.”

  “How do you know?”

  Did a shrug explain it all? Apparently not, because even when I shrugged, Oz continued to stare at me, waiting for an answer.

  “I found his movie ticket,” I confessed.

  “Should I ask?”

  “Jack Harkness took me to the Sadler house. He’s engaged to Kendall Sadler, you know.” All true so I didn’t feel guilty leaving out the part about sneaking into the house, hiding in the closet, and leaving the property on the floor of Jack’s car. “Tab’s jacket was hanging right there. I just happened to look through the pockets.”

  As if praying for strength, Oz closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he said, “A movie is an alibi.”

  “Then why did he lie about it?”

  This, Oz did not have an answer for. He dragged his last french fry through the splotch of ketchup on his dish.

  “Did he say who he was with at the movie?” he wanted to know.

  “I didn’t exactly have a chance to ask.” True again. “But you’ve got to wonder why he felt he needed to lie.”

  “Maybe because like you said, Muriel cut the purse strings. That gives him a solid motive. Maybe he thought if we found out he wasn’t home, it would only make things look worse.”

  “Does it?” I wanted to know.

  “The movie doesn’t. The lying does.”

  “Will you look into it?”

  “Will you?” he asked.

  He wanted me to swear I’d stay far away from the investigation, and I couldn’t blame him. As Oz had said, he was doing his job. I was being a busybody.

  I didn’t have the heart to let him down. Not when that silly purple glitter flashed in his dark hair.

  Instead, I tucked my hands under the table, the better to cross my fingers.

  “Like you said, it’s what you get paid to do,” I said. “You’re the professional. I’m the amateur. I’ll steer clear. I promise.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Crossed fingers aside, I was trying my best to be honest when I promised Oz I’d let him do his job and keep out of his way. At least semi-honest. After all, I knew he was right. I wasn’t a professional. He was. I didn’t have the training or the chops to handle a murder investigation. He did. But the next day, the Wednesday before Agnes’s inauguration, three things happened that made me realize minding my own business wasn’t going to be all that easy.

  First, Jack showed up at the club with a load of books under his arm.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said.

  I was behind my desk, tallying up the last batch of inauguration RSVPs we’d received. Thirty coming. Not bad for a club with a reputation for doom, gloom, and murder.

  “So talk,” I told him, checking off the names of our guests on the list I’d printed out.

  “Not here,” he said, and I looked up from my work in time to see him glance over his shoulder. “In Lilac.”

  It wasn’t like him to be secretive—well, except when it came to the fact that he was engaged to Kendall, that he had money, and that he wasn’t above a little subterfuge when it came to trying to pin a murder on Tab, which made me think he had suspicions about Tab, too—so naturally, I was intrigued. I followed him upstairs and when we got to Lilac, he shut the door behind us and set down those books.

  “Patricia asked me to look through the old records,” he said.

  It was hard to line up the idea of Patricia and old records with the Finkinator I’d seen out on the rink the night before. I hid my smile at the same time I said, “She’s the one introducing Agnes on Sunday.” No use. Try as I might, I couldn’t help but picture Patricia skating into the ballroom wearing her short purple shorts, with her arms bare and that skull and crossbones tattoo out in the open for all to see. I swallowed a giggle. “She’s hoping to add some colorful stories to her opening remarks.”

  “Well, I think I found one.” He flipped open one of the books and pointed to a page he had marked with an index card. “Minutes of the meeting on May 16, 1960, Margaret Yarborough presiding.”

  I nodded. “Agnes’s mother.”

  “Exactly. And according to what I read, the meeting where the membership approved new applications. You know, for women who wanted to join the club.”

  I wasn’t sure where he was headed with this. “OK, so what are you getting at?”

  “Agnes’s application was one of the ones read at that meeting.”

  “Makes sense.” I leaned against the desk where Jack worked. “She would have been about eighteen the time so she’d be eligible to join the club. She practically grew up here. Her grandmother was once president. And her mom was, too. You know all that. I’m sure they had big plans for Agnes.”

  “Then why did her mother vote against her membership?”

  I stood up straight. “There must be some mistake.”

  “I read it over carefully,” he assured me. “Three times in fact.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense. Agnes’s mother wouldn’t—”

  He picked up the book and cleared his throat before he began reading from the minutes of the day’s meeting. “Votes in favor of Agnes Yarborough joining the Portage Path Women’s Club: twenty-five. Votes against: one, cast by Margaret Yarborough.”

  It wasn’t like I didn’t believe him; I just couldn’t make the words line up with my thinking. I crossed the room and took the book out of Jack’s hands. “Votes in favor of Agnes Yarborough . . .” I read the words quickly and under my breath. “Votes against . . . Margaret Yarborough.” I looked up at Jack. “That doesn’t seem possible.”

  “But it sure is interesting.”

  “Yeah.” Thinking it through, I closed the book and set it down on the table. “What do you suppose it means?”

  Jack made a face. “I guess there could be any number of reasons for the two of them to be at odds. Mother and daughter had a fight. Over a boy. Over Agnes wearing too much makeup. Or maybe they disagreed about some club rule. Heck, it was 1960; maybe Agnes was ahead of her time and wanted to buy a bikini. Who knows what girls and their mothers fight about!”

  “One person does.” I marched out of Lilac. “And I’m going to find her and get some answers.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Agnes was nowhere to be found, and as it turned out, that was a good thing. It led me to the second thing that made me realize I couldn’t easily back away from the investigation. Oh, not right away. That didn’t happen until after I went into the ballroom and saw Agnes wasn’t there. Then I ducked into the kitchen, where Quentin and Geneva assured me they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her since we taste-tested appetizers and desserts the
day before.

  The president’s office wasn’t officially hers yet, but I knew Oz had given Agnes the go-ahead, and that little by little she was moving things in there and making it her own. That was the next place I looked, the next place I didn’t find her.

  Honestly, I wasn’t as baffled as I was just curious. As we’d nibbled Quentin’s amazing pavlova in the kitchen the day before, Agnes had mentioned that she had tons to do before she took over the official reins of the club. She told me she’d be in early that day, that she knew she’d have to stay late.

  And yet she was a no-show.

  My curiosity writhed and bent and knotted into worry.

  I called Agnes and while I was still listening to the incessant ring on the other end of the phone, I strolled into her office. No more crime scene tape draped over the doorway. When she didn’t answer, I ended the call and looked around. That dead aspidistra was gone. No surprise there, I’d removed it and found my missing diary and journal tucked in the pot. The piles of papers I’d seen on the credenza the last time I was there were gone, too. That wasn’t a surprise, either. I knew Agnes had been through all the papers Muriel left behind, sorting and piling, determining what was important and needed to be kept in light of current club business and what she’d hand over to Gracie for the archives.

  That wasn’t the last of the changes there in the office. There was a magenta-colored African violet on the windowsill, and it brought life to the room as did the poster stuck to the filing cabinet with cheery magnets, a cat, its claws caught on the edges of a tree branch. Hang in there! it advised. A good reminder, I would think, for a president who had wanted the job, given it up, and ended up with it dumped in her lap along with the mess that was Muriel’s murder.

  There was nothing on the desktop but the nameplate that had once graced Agnes’s vice president’s desk down in Daisy. The wastepaper basket was empty and there was nothing—

  I’d already skimmed over the single scrap of paper lying on the floor before I realized how out of place it was. I bent down and retrieved it.