Death, Guns, and Sticky Buns

by Valerie S. Malmont

  “Yes?”

  Damn that mask. I couldn't tell what her reaction was. “I have good reason to believe his death was not an accident.”

  “Do you mean you think Woody Woodruff murdered him?” Her voice was flat and unemotional, but I could imagine the turmoil going through her mind.

  I shook my head. “No. I think your husband died by his own hand.”

  “I don't think I understand what you're getting at.”

  This was going to be difficult. I took a sip of my now-lukewarmtea. “Your husband committed suicide, Mrs. Macmillan.”

  “That's preposterous! How can you sit here in my living room and say such a dreadful thing?” I expected her to leap to her feet, call her housekeeper, and have me bodily thrown from the house, but instead she stayed in her chair and glared at me through her mask. “Tell me what gave you this crazy idea.”

  “I heard he took it very hard when he was told he had cancer.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I'm not free to say.”

  “Dr. Washabaugh's nurse, Vesta Pennsinger, told you, didn't she? That woman ought to mind her own damn business.”

  “I agree with you on that.”

  “Let me get this straight, Tori. You are telling me that my husband planned his own death because he was dying of cancer?”

  “I also learned that this farm was up for sale until shortly after his death, when you took it off the market.”

  “That's true. Mack and I had decided to move to Florida for his arthritis. After he died, there was no need to move, so I—”

  “It wasn't up for sale because you wanted to move. It was for sale because Mack made a lot of stupid investments using the equity he had in the farm for collateral. He had no choice but to sell it to pay off his creditors.” Charlotte burst into tears, stopping my discourse.

  “I'm right, aren't I?”

  “Is this general knowledge?” she asked between sniffles.

  I nodded. “I'm afraid so. You know how the Grapevine works.”

  “So what does anything you've said have to do with Mack's death?”

  “I think what happened was your husband wanted to commit suicide instead of dying slowly and painfully from cancer. But he knew you'd be saddled with his debts if he did, so he looked for a way to make his death look accidental. The mock execution came up at just the right time.”

  “But a firing squad? No one would want to die in front of a firing squad.”

  “He would if he were a Civil War buff like your husband. When he learned of the execution plans, it must have seemed like the perfect opportunity to stage his own ‘accidental’ death. As I see it, he first browbeat Janet Margolies into letting him play the victim, even though he was much too old for the part. He made sure he was present when the guns were loaded. He switched keys with Janet while she was in the rest room. And later that night, he returned and replaced the foam blanks with lead bullets from his collection.”

  “You have no way of really knowing he did this… this dreadful thing to himself.”

  “But I do, Charlotte. In your husband's desk at the college, I found proof that he was the one who loaded the guns with live ammunition. In his top desk drawer, I found the ammunition he took from the guns and also the missing storeroom key. He'd probably planned to switch the keys back again but never found an opportunity to do so.”

  Charlotte wiped her eyes, and I saw that the mask she wore was dark with tears. I hated myself for what I was going to say next.

  “Charlotte, I think you knew what he was planning to do. That's why you were out of town that weekend, wasn't it.”

  “No… no… no,” she moaned.

  “If you did know, then you'll be charged as an accessory.” I wasn't sure what the crime was, but I think there must be one to cover insurance frauds. “I'm turning the Wonder Wads and the key over to the police. They'll be sure to ask questions. I hope you can answer them.”

  Charlotte stood, looming over me. I suddenly realized how muscular she looked, how strong she probably was from tending to her horses. She stood there a minute as if undecided about what to do, then sighed and said, “I have his suicide note, Tori. I'll get it for you.”

  She pressed a hidden button on the bookcase wall and one section of shelves opened like a door to reveal a six-foot-high safe door. She spun the combination lock several times and pushed down on the lever, and the door swung outward with a groan. I got up with the intention of peeking into the safe, but she blocked the entrance. “Nobody goes in here but me,” she said, her voice as cold and brittle as ice cubes.

  I stepped back a few inches to show her I had no intention of barging into her safe. She went inside, and as her back was to me, I stood on my tiptoes and tried to get a look inside. The safe was actually a room about the size of my apartment in New York, with rows of shelves, much like the bookcases, stacked high with boxes.

  Charlotte emerged, closed the safe, and spun the lock. In one hand she held a thin brown manila envelope. “Take it,” she said. “It's Mack's last message to me.”

  I opened the envelope, which was not sealed, and pulled out a piece of paper covered with handwriting.

  “Go ahead and read it.”

  “Dearest Charlotte,” I read. “Are you sure you want me to continue?”

  I took her silence to mean yes.

  As you know, my financial situation has deteriorated badly. I trusted people who were not trustworthy, and I made some unwise investments. Unfortunately, I used our farm, the farm you love so much, as collateral, and the only way to settle my debts was to sell the farm and pay off my creditors. When I learned I had inoperable cancer and my days were limited, I worried about you, my dearest wife. You would lose first the home you have cherished, then have to face losing me from cancer.

  When I heard about the plans for the mock execution, it came to me that I could leave this world on my own terms and you could still have the property. I cajoled Janet Margolies into letting me be the intended victim. Because I had watched Woody Woodruff's men put on other exhibitions, I knew he loaded the guns in advance, and I asked to be there when that was done. When we were finished, I followed Janet up to her office and switched one of my office keys for her storeroom key. If she hadn't gone upstairs on her own. I would have asked her to accompany me on some pretext. I knew she couldn't stay away from the bathroom for more than a few minutes, and that would give me time to exchange keys.

  I loaded the guns with lead from my own collection. Before I locked the storeroom. I took one last look at the guns—it was my opportunity to change my mind—and I decided then to go on with my plan.

  I stopped reading and said, “I wonder why he didn't get rid of the ammunition he took from the guns.”

  “He probably meant to, then ran out of time. Mack was always late.”

  “He was late the day of the shooting, I remember.” I read on.

  I want you to put this letter in our safe, my dear, and save it if there is ever any suspicion cast on you. If that is the case, bring this out, to prove you had no knowledge of my actions in advance. I'm afraid if that happens, you will lose the insurance money, but my Civil War collection is extremely valuable, and I have left it to you in my will to dispose of as you see fit.

  I looked up from the letter and asked, “Where is his will, Charlotte?”

  “It's on file at Buchanan McCleary's office. He's our attorney.”

  I read the last line. “God bless you and keep you safe, Your loving husband, Mack.”

  “I had no idea he'd planned this awful thing,” she said. “I'd never have left town for the weekend if I'd had any inkling of it. Mack was my whole life, Tori.” She wiped her eyes with a Kleenex. “Now you know the whole sordid story, and Mack's carefully planned suicide was a wasted effort.”

  “I'm so sorry,” I said.

  “I guess you'll have to turn the letter over to the police, won't you?” Her blue eyes looked earnestly at me, and I sensed she hoped I'd be merciful
and give the letter back.

  “I'm so sorry,” I repeated.

  Her shoulders dropped. “I understand. It was wrong of me to have hidden it, but I always did exactly what Mack told me to do.” She buried her face in her hands as her body shook.

  I let myself out, taking the letter with me.

  CHAPTER 18

  Wednesday Afternoon

  BACK IN LICKIN CREEK, I DROVE IMMEDIATELY TO Hoopengartner's Garage, where I found Luscious in the tiny police office in the back of the station. He'd been drinking, I was sure. I smelled vodka, the daytime drink of choice for alcoholics who mistakenly believe it has no odor. But it did have an odor, one I was all too familiar with, having smelled it on my mother's breath for many years.

  “What's up,” he said, lurching to his feet. I feared he'd topple over if he tried standing for long, so I quickly sat down on the solitary guest chair and he followed suit with a relieved look on his face.

  “This is what's up, Luscious.” I positioned the letter on his desk so he could read it. He frowned, pulled back a little, squinted, then hunched forward. “I'll read it to you,” I said, retrieving the letter. “It's Mack Mac-millan's suicide note.”

  “Wow!” Luscious cocked his head, reminding me of a chicken. “Mack committed suicide?”

  “Yes, Luscious.” I read the letter to him.

  “Wow, Tori. That sounds like he was trying to con his insurance company.”

  “Exactly, Luscious. And I have the foam wads and the keys he mentioned in the letter to back it up.”

  Luscious shook his head sorrowfully. “Mack Mac-millan. I just can't believe it.”

  “He had cancer. Guess he didn't want to die that way.”

  “Mack Macmillan. Who would have thought it?”

  I interrupted his head shaking and pondering to say, “Luscious, you'll have to call his insurance company, get someone started on this. They'll have to come to some agreement with Mrs. Macmillan to get the money back.”

  “My oh my oh my! Mack Macmillan. I can't believe it! He went to school with my pap-pap. Pap-pap's what we always called my grandfather,” he explained. “Guess this lets Woody Woodruff off the hook. I'll tell the D.A. to drop charges against him.”

  I left the letter and other items with him, hoping he wouldn't lose them. I was depressed about Charlotte's plight. She'd gone from beloved wife to wealthy widow to impoverished widow in a very short time. She was extremely popular throughout the tri-county area, and I knew sympathy would be on her side. Once again, I would be Tori Miracle, the troublemaker from New York.

  I drove back to Moon Lake with my brain spinning, coming up with all kinds of ridiculous ideas, like organizing a fund-raiser for Charlotte, having a bake sale, or whatever it is they do here in Lickin Creek to take care of their own.

  Uriah's Heap, the only taxi in Lickin Creek, was parked in the driveway. There were two suitcases sitting by the back door. Could Ethelind really be leaving? It was too much to hope for, but when I opened the door, there she was, pacing the kitchen, purse in hand, fleecelined raincoat draped over her shoulders. “Tori, am I glad to see you. I didn't want to leave without saying good-bye.”

  “You're actually leaving?”

  “Yes, I just had a call. The QE II finally has an empty cabin. I'm flying to New York this afternoon and sailing in the morning.”

  “I'll miss you.” And oddly enough, I realized I would.

  She gave me a boozy kiss on the forehead. “You take good care of my house—and yourself, luv.”

  I waved until the Heap was out of sight, then went back inside and closed the door behind me. This time, I made sure it was locked. I'd never spent a night alone in a house as big as this, and I felt rather nervous, especially after the things that had happened to me in the past week.

  I poured the contents of a can of chili into a bowl, heated it in the microwave, and sat down at the kitchen table. Fred and Noel sat quietly by their own dishes, not eating, as if they, too, suddenly felt deserted. I ate half the chili, washed it down with a Diet Coke, had a Snickers bar for dessert, then rinsed my dish. My meal, including preparation time, had taken only five minutes.

  The ringing of the telephone echoed throughout the empty mansion. My former neighbor and good friend in New York, the almost-world-famous actor/Italian waiter, had warned me many times never pick up on the first ring—it makes you appear desperate. I ignored his advice and grabbed the receiver, cutting the second ring off before it had a chance to get up to speed.

  “Tori, is that you?”

  “Garnet!” Joy welled up inside me.

  “Tori, are you all right? I've been so worried, ever since I heard about—”

  “How did you hear?” I interrupted.

  “Aunt Gladys called.”

  “I should have known. I'm really okay. My arms are a bit sore from all that hanging, but at least I'm not lying flat as a pancake in the LCCFW's marble halls.”

  “Hanging? What are you talking about?”

  “I fell off the staircase at the college. Isn't that what you called about?”

  He groaned. “Aunt Gladys told me you'd been in a fire. She never mentioned the other thing.”

  “Ooops!”

  “Tori, don't try to be funny. I've only been gone a short while and you've had two disasters. Why can't you take better care of yourself?”

  “There's no need to worry. Did your aunt Gladys tell you Professor Nakamura was shot?”

  “No! Is he all right?”

  “Last I heard, he was recovering nicely. Someone mistook him for a deer.”

  “Dare I ask what else is new?”

  I told him the whole story about Mack's death being a suicide. He waited until I was finished, then said, “You did a good job getting to the bottom of it, Tori. I couldn't have done better myself.”

  I felt my cheeks flush with pleasure.

  “But please, I repeat, please do not undertake any more investigations while I'm gone. No matter how incompetent you think Luscious is, he is the police chief. And I don't want anything to happen to you. You are much too precious to me. I've got to go now. Got tickets to see Manon Lescault tonight at the Kennedy Center. I'll call you on Sunday as we planned.”

  There was a click, followed by the buzz of an empty phone line. I hadn't asked him how his Spanish lessons were going. Or if he had a comfortable bed, like the one he slept in at home, the bed he'd been born in. Or if he was eating properly. I hadn't told him about poor Dr. Washabaugh, or my biopsy either. I'd be better prepared on Sunday, even if it meant making a list of everything I wanted to talk about and keeping it by the telephone. While I was digging in Ethelind's junk drawer for a notepad, it occurred to me that I wasn't the only one who hadn't asked questions. Garnet hadn't asked me about the results of my biopsy.

  I ate a Snickers bar for dessert, then realized I'd already done that. These long, quiet evenings were going to be perfect for finishing my book. I could set my laptop up on the kitchen table and work all night if I wanted to. This was going to be a great winter, I just knew it.

  So why didn't I feel like setting it up now and getting started? There was something preying on my mind, and I decided I had to put it to rest before I could concentrate on my work.

  “I'll see you guys later,” I told the cats. They were still sitting by their bowls, side by side, as if waiting for something good to happen. “I'll bring you a special treat. Maybe a can of tuna.” Their ears perked up. They always recognized the word tuna.

  My little car protested, but eventually started, and I drove through the quiet streets of Lickin Creek. Although only a little past eight, the few stores that remained downtown were closed. The trees that lined the streets had already lost their leaves, and their stark branches sparkled with tiny white lights that looked like Christmas to me, but stayed up all year round. The fountain was illuminated by several spotlights, and I was glad to see someone had placed carved jack-o’-lanterns around its base between the pots of chrysanthemums. At night, do
wntown was as magical as the Emerald City of Oz. The mood was broken when a teenager in a souped-up car roared past, and a beer can flew out of the right rear window. I quickly passed through town and out of it, and was soon on one of the farm roads that wound its way through the peaceful countryside. The peaceful and dark countryside. I was alone in more ways than one.

  Somehow, I missed the peach stand and drove nearly to West Mountain before I realized how far I'd come and had to turn around. I drove more slowly on the country lane until I found the mailbox that said Hostet-tler farm.

  Flickering lights in the lower windows of the farmhouse indicated the oil lamps were lit. I couldn't imagine why people would chose to live in such a primitive way when there were so many modern conveniences available, but I had to admire the Amish for the way they held on to their beliefs in the face of the encroaching American culture.

  The narrow road down the hill, which had been washed away the last time I was here, had been filled in with gravel, and I drove right down to the barn. I parked close to the building, then waited a moment to steel my nerves. Tonight I was going to tell Darious there was absolutely nothing between us, not now, and not in the future. Never ever. Hearing Garnet's voice on the telephone tonight had reinforced my feelings for him. I didn't need any other man in my life. Not now, not in the future. Not ever.

  I was surprised to find the door to the barn slightly ajar. The other two times I'd been here, Darious had kept it locked, a precaution I could understand since I now knew how valuable carousel animals were. I pulled it open wider and listened to the carousel organ playing “In the Good Old Summertime.” I smiled, as I could imagine Darious riding the newly repaired jumper on his carousel. Perhaps, after I talked to him, he'd let me take one last ride. There were no lights on in the little anteroom, so I crossed it slowly and carefully, until my foot bumped against a stone step.

  After climbing the short flight of steps, I pushed open the door. The carousel music was much louder than it had been on my other two visits. Even though I called Darious's name, there was no way he'd hear me over the din. I slipped inside. The barn, as usual, was un-lighted, except for the spinning carousel. Before me was a blur of lights, bouncing from the sparkling jewels on the animals and the gilt trim and mirrors of the carousel itself. I leaned against the wall for a moment to regain my equilibrium, for the sight and sound were overwhelming.