Haunted Homicide

by Lucy Ness

  It was stained and crumpled. Like it had been held close in a hand that was sweaty, and even before I flattened it out so I could take a better look, I knew exactly what it was.

  After all, I’d seen one just like it before.

  A ticket to the sixtieth anniversary showing of Psycho on the night Muriel was killed.

  * * *

  * * *

  I was still wondering what to make of the bedraggled movie ticket when I heard a thud from down the hallway. Something fell. Something big. Something heavy.

  My heartbeat echoed the sound.

  We had a missing soon-to-be president.

  A dead president.

  An unsolved murder.

  It’s not like anyone could blame me when my imagination ran away with me and I took off with it.

  I raced down the hallway. Jack was in Lilac, exactly where I’d left him, nose deep in a book and so lost in thought, he was totally unaware of the fact that something close by had thudded.

  Left to my own devices, I ducked into Marigold and pulled myself up short.

  “Good morning, Agnes,” I said, my words stuttering over my ragged breaths. “I wondered where you were.”

  She was bent over, that’s where she was, picking up a large volume of club records that had obviously slipped out of her hands and landed on the floor.

  “Oh, Avery!” When she stood up, Agnes’s cheeks were flushed. But then, she was no spring chicken, and at her age, picking up a heavy book counts as aerobic exercise. She held the book close to her chest. “I didn’t know you were looking for me.”

  “We need to talk,” I said.

  There was another book pulled half in and half out of its place on the shelf, and with one finger, she pushed it back where it belonged then returned the other book to the shelf, too. Her hands empty, she smoothed them over her dark skirt and offered me a weak smile.

  “Lots to do before Sunday,” she said.

  “Is your mother coming to the inauguration?” Three cheers for me, I made this sound like the most natural question in the world. “I know she’s not well, but I can’t help but think how much she’d enjoy being back here at the club. And my goodness . . .” I turned and walked to the far wall. Some of the wallpaper there was missing, stripped off by Jack, who wanted to make sure the vintage wallpaper he was hoping to buy was printed with marigolds of the exact right shade. Stalling for time, I studied the mottled plaster where the paper had been, then I turned to face Agnes again. “She must be so proud of you!”

  Another skim of her hands over her skirt. Another thin smile. “Of course she is.”

  “You certainly have proven yourself over all the years you’ve been a member of the club.” This went without saying, but I said it, anyway. After all, I hoped to get Agnes to relax and open up—about her mother and the truth of their relationship. “She must know you’re the perfect woman for this job.”

  “That’s exactly what she told me when I visited her the other day,” Agnes assured me. “She’s the one . . .” She glanced at the books she’d just put on the shelf. “Mother asked me to take a look through some of the old books. To gather some of the old stories. She said she’d so like hearing about them the next time I stop in.”

  “Except you really don’t need to bother. Patricia’s already asked Jack to do that.” Wondering how Agnes might react, I let the news sink in, and when she didn’t do anything at all except stand there, I added, “And no one’s supposed to be in here messing with the books. Not until Jack gives us the go-ahead.”

  “That certainly doesn’t apply to the president of the club,” she said. “Besides, I’ve been very careful. Just looking. Just skimming. Just remembering the good old days.”

  “Like the day your mother voted against you joining PPWC?”

  “Well, I . . .” Now her hands fluttered. Over her chest. Up to her hair. Back down to her waist.

  “Or maybe you’re thinking of some newer history that’s not in the books at all. Like the night Muriel was killed and you said you were home. Only you weren’t, were you?”

  Her chin came up. “It’s really none of your business.”

  “Actually, you made it my business. You and the other board members.”

  “Really, Avery!” She harrumphed and glided past me and out to the hallway, and I followed along, all the way to her office. When she got there, Agnes plumped into the chair behind her desk, twined her fingers together on the desktop, and sat up as straight as if there was a metal rod in her spine. “You’re overstepping your authority.”

  I skimmed a finger along the top of the credenza before I stationed myself in front of her on the other side of the desk. “Oz wouldn’t be if he asked the same questions.”

  “Oz.” She had to think about it. “You mean that detective? You’ve been talking to him?”

  “Not about this.” I flashed the movie ticket her way. “But then, I just found it.”

  “You had no business going through my office.”

  “It was on the floor,” I said, and I didn’t bother to say which floor, where. Obviously Agnes had dropped the ticket. I let her think that might have been out in the hallway, where anyone could find it. “Naturally, I didn’t want litter on the floor here at the club, so I just—”

  “Poked your nose where it doesn’t belong,” she grumbled.

  “Did my part to keep the club clean.” I smiled and kept on smiling, even when I said, “The night Muriel was killed, you were at the movies. With Tab Sadler.”

  She sputtered what might have been a denial. That is, before her shoulders rose and fell and she let go a stumbling breath. “What difference would that make? We might have both been at the movie, but we weren’t at the movie together,” she was quick to add. “I was there. He was there. We ran into each other at the concession stand, but that doesn’t mean a thing, does it? I saw him. He saw me. We exchanged pleasantries and went our separate ways. Now you know I have an alibi. And so does Tab. We can vouch for each other.”

  True.

  Maybe.

  If Tab corroborated the story.

  That line of inquiry was best left to Oz. I had other things to worry about, things more pertinent to the club.

  I pinned Agnes with a look. “And your mother?”

  Agnes shook her head. “It hardly matters. It happened years ago. Mother and I had a little spat right before the membership vote. It skewed her thinking, that’s all. Believe me, she had a change of heart as soon as she saw what an asset I was to the club. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be so excited about me being president, would she? She wouldn’t have agreed to come to the inauguration. It would be best . . .” She gave me a look that wasn’t as sly as it was conspiratorial. “It would be best if the membership didn’t find out about Mother’s vote all those years ago. It would undermine my authority.”

  “Did Muriel know?”

  She jerked back as if I’d slapped her. “You think I killed her? Because of something as silly as my mother’s long-ago mood swing?”

  “I think you didn’t want this secret getting out. If Muriel knew, if she threatened to tell . . .”

  “Muriel liked to play tough. But she was weak and ineffective, the worst president this club has ever had. Why else do you think she felt she had to browbeat everyone? She was covering up for her own personal shortcomings.”

  “So she did know.”

  “She may have. But if she did, she never said anything about it to me. You’re way off base, Avery. So far off base, you’re not even in the ballpark. Let it go.”

  I wasn’t sure if it was a plea or a threat.

  I did know I couldn’t afford to cave to either.

  CHAPTER 21

  Truth be told, if Agnes hadn’t dropped that tantalizing line about the ballpark and being off base, I would have bought her story, hook, line, and sinker. The way
it was, I couldn’t help but be curious. In spite of reminding Agnes to stay out of there, I waited patiently (well, semi-patiently) for her to head downstairs and get busy in the ballroom, and I made a beeline for Marigold. I was in luck; Jack was in there, peering and poking at the wallpaper.

  As soon as I was through the doorway, I blurted out, “When did you find that book?”

  He turned, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and gave me a blank stare.

  “The minutes that show Margaret Yarborough voted against Agnes. When did you find it? Because I think she was just in here looking for it so she could keep it a secret.”

  One corner of his mouth pulled tight. “So?”

  “So . . .” I’d been filled with zeal, on fire with excitement, about to burst because of the exhilaration of it all, and . . .

  As if I were a balloon and pricked by a pin, all that exhilaration whooshed out of me. “I dunno.” It was as hard to admit to him as it was to admit it to myself. My cheeks flamed. “I guess I thought that if Agnes had a secret she wanted to keep, and Muriel knew it, she might have killed Muriel.” My spirits deflated a little more. “But she had an alibi. I guess I really am off base. Just like she told me.”

  “Probably.” His confidence didn’t exactly inspire me. “But Agnes is the one who started the fire in Marigold.”

  Since the fire, Jack had spent more time in Marigold than anyone else. “You think it wasn’t an accident?”

  “The fine folks from the fire department say it was.”

  “And we have absolutely no reason not to believe them. Besides, the minutes of the meeting were never secret, so it’s not like no one ever knew how Margaret tried to pull the rug out from under Agnes. There are probably still some members around who were here that day. They know Agnes’s mother voted against her.”

  My theory about Agnes being the killer—however half-baked that theory was—went up in smoke. “You’re right,” I told Jack. “I’m going nowhere with this.” And I reminded myself not to forget it.

  * * *

  * * *

  We were busy all that Wednesday and Thursday and Friday, things got even crazier. The (small but powerful) inauguration committee spent the day decorating the ballroom. I spent hours and hours on a PowerPoint presentation that included old photos, a history of the Yarborough family (no mention of Margaret’s opposition to Agnes’s membership), and a brief but—if I did say so myself—interesting and informative history of the club. When I gave the presentation a final once-over, Clemmie watched from over my shoulder and declared it the eel’s eyebrows.

  By Friday evening, I was whooped and obviously not thinking clearly, so when Gracie whizzed across the lobby and toward the front door, car keys in her hand, all I managed to say was, “Have a good evening.”

  Until I came to my senses and popped out of my chair. “Uh, Gracie . . .” I remembered what Oz had told me about the background checks he’d done on our club members—and on me—and gave the keys in her hand a pointed look, hoping that would say everything I didn’t want to put into words. When it didn’t, I took the proverbial bull by the horns. Gently, of course. This was Gracie.

  “Are you driving home?” I asked her.

  “Of course. Same as always.”

  Another knowing look. She ignored that one, too.

  “Are you supposed to be driving home?” I asked.

  She gave me a vacant, old-lady stare that I knew was an act. “My mind isn’t what it used to be. Have I forgotten that I have somewhere else to go?”

  I put my fists on my hips. “Not what I’m talking about, and you know it.”

  She pressed her lips together. “Who told you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Well, Avery, how do they expect me to live my life if I can’t drive?” Gracie’s voice was shrill with frustration. “Those people over at the DMV, they don’t know beans about what it’s like to get old. If they take away my driving privileges, they might as well dig a hole and shove me in.”

  “Except they’ve already taken away your driving privileges. There might be some sort of appeal you could undertake, but—”

  She flashed me a smile. “Never say the word undertake to a woman as old as me!”

  I smiled, too, even as I reached over and slipped the keys out of her hand. “I’ll drive you home,” I told her.

  “And tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow, I’ll come pick you up.”

  She made a grab for the keys. She was fast, but I was faster. I tucked my hand—and the keys—behind my back. “That’s too much to ask,” she insisted.

  “Not when it comes to the oldest member of the club.”

  She gave me a begrudging smile. “Older than dirt.”

  “Which is why on the ride home, you can tell me all about Agnes and her mother.”

  * * *

  * * *

  It was never a secret,” Gracie insisted. “Everyone at the club knew Margaret didn’t care two figs about Agnes.”

  To a kid who had grown up without parents but with an aunt who was dotty but doted on her, it was incomprehensible. “But why?”

  Gracie was wearing a gray raincoat, and when she shrugged, it wrapped around her like a cocoon. “Margaret wasn’t the easiest woman in the world to know. Demanding. If you know what I mean. Particular.”

  “Sounds like she should have been Muriel’s mother.”

  Gracie puffed out a laugh. “Same sort of personality, that’s for sure. She was a wonderful club president, no one ever said she wasn’t, but she never had much time for little Agnes.”

  “Which makes me think she should have been even happier to have her as a member of the club. That way, they could see each other more.”

  “Margaret was always more interested in Margaret than in anyone else.” The thought did not sit well with Gracie. That would explain why she pursed her lips and clasped her hands together on her lap. “Why, even old Hank Yarborough . . .” She glanced my way. “That’s Agnes’s father. Seems to me once upon a very long time ago, Margaret and Hank were as happy as clams together. He was always at the club helping out with things. Then once Agnes came along . . . well, I suppose there’s no telling how people are going to react to parenthood. It’s not an easy job.”

  This, I couldn’t say, so I didn’t say anything. Instead, I concentrated on the road and on Gracie’s directions to her house. She lived in a well-tended, upscale neighborhood but not in a grand mansion like the Sadlers did. In fact, Gracie’s house reminded me of the classic witch’s cottage in a fairy-tale picture book. It had a low-slung slate roof, a brick walk that skirted beds of purple chrysanthemums the size of baseballs, and vining roses all around the front door.

  A front door that was wide open.

  “Oh!” Gracie saw what I saw exactly when I saw it, and her mouth fell open and her exclamation came out at the end of a gasp. “I didn’t leave the door open, Avery. I may be forgetful now and again, but I’d never do that. What do you suppose is going on?”

  By this time, I’d already slammed on the brakes, and we sat side by side, looking at the dark house, wondering.

  It wasn’t until Gracie made a move to open the car door, all set to hop out and have a look around, that I snapped back to reality. I grabbed onto her with one hand and used the other to pull out my phone.

  CHAPTER 22

  I can’t say he was there in a flash, but I can say whatever he’d been up to, he’d obviously set it aside, and fast. Oz arrived, the knot of his tie loose and his shirt unbuttoned at the neck. When he jumped out of the car, his raincoat flapped around him.

  “You haven’t been inside, have you?”

  I think he was honestly surprised when I told him no. He nodded, signaled to the two uniformed cops who’d followed his unmarked car in their patrol car and said, “Don’t move. And I mean it, Avery. Lock the car
doors and stay here with Ms. Grimm.”

  If not for Gracie, I might have ignored his command. I was itching to see what was going on inside the house, especially when I watched the cops go inside and sat, helpless, as they turned on the lights, room by room as they did a walk-through. What were they looking for? What had they found?

  I told myself it wasn’t nearly as important as comforting the woman at my side. Gracie’s face was as gray as her raincoat. Her hands shook. Her breaths came in quick, shallow gasps.

  I reached over and covered her hands with mine. “It’s going to be all right,” I said. “Oz will take care of everything.”

  “He sure is a looker!” The tears on her cheeks belied Gracie’s attempt at being upbeat. Her bottom lip trembled. “Why would anyone want to break into my house, Avery?”

  I couldn’t imagine. No doubt, Gracie was just as well-off as the other ladies in the club, but she certainly didn’t flaunt her status or her money, and though her house was neat and cozy and downright cute, there was nothing from the outside to indicate that there might any anything of special value within.

  Did Gracie have a treasure trove of family jewels?

  A stamp collection of renown?

  A fortune in gold doubloons hidden under the floorboards?

  When I saw Oz come to the front door and motion for us to come inside, I hoped I’d find out.

  I jumped out of the car and went around to the passenger side to help Gracie out, and side by side, with Gracie’s tiny body shaking with every step, we went into the house.

  Everything I could see from the front hallway was as neat as a pin.

  “What happened?” I asked Oz.

  He scratched a hand through his hair. “Not sure yet. But why don’t you . . .” He handed Gracie off to the nearest uniformed officer, and once they went into the living room and the officer settled Gracie on the couch, Oz tipped his head to indicate that I should follow him.