“Rebecca. It’s the inquest scene.” He turned away from the TV’s frozen image. “You find any new suspects today?”
She lounged on the sofa. “No, but I have a new victim, or at least one with different traits than the one I had yesterday.”
She told him how Althea had undermined her assumptions about Nadia.
Granddad took off his glasses, cleaned them, and put them back on. “Sounds like Althea’s grieving. Grief has made her angry at anyone who runs down Nadia. But her view of Nadia is no more valid than anyone else’s.” Granddad pointed his remote at the TV. “The dead Rebecca is a different person depending on who’s talking about her. The widower, his young bride, the housekeeper.”
Val remembered enough of the film to understand his point. “But facts come out that clarify what Rebecca’s really like.”
“Life doesn’t tie up loose ends as well as the movies do.”
He went back to watching the movie. She took Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes and the Treadwell Gazette upstairs to read in bed. Usually the local newspaper put her to sleep. Tonight, though, she devoured the articles on Nadia’s murder. They contained nothing she didn’t already know and left out things she knew that the media didn’t.
She turned to the Thursday food section. An article about the opening of the Tuscan Eaterie and an interview with a local farmer took second billing to the feature article—Beloved Recipe Columnist Hangs Up Her Apron. The nostalgic farewell from the retiring columnist ended with her most popular recipes—Southern fried chicken, corn pudding, and whipped cream pound cake, a legendary favorite with Elvis Presley, who used to down the entire cake at one sitting and ask for seconds.
Val scanned the dessert recipe. Its ingredients included two sticks of butter, seven eggs, and a cup of heavy cream. Between the calorie counter in her brain and the calculator on her phone, she estimated the cake at 6,500 calories. If she ate only one slice, she’d have to make up for it by skipping a meal. Elvis would have been better off with a food guilt complex like hers.
A sidebar on the page noted that the deadline had passed to enter the contest for the new recipe columnist. The newspaper would announce the winner in the weekend food section. Darn. If she’d known about the contest, she’d have entered it. Though writing for the local newspaper wouldn’t pay much, a column could lead to bigger things, even a contract for a cookbook.
She finished the Sherlock story she’d started last night, yawned, and turned off the light. Thirty minutes later she still hadn’t fallen asleep. A change of scenery might help. She went downstairs and curled up on the sofa. The darkness magnified even the slightest noise. The refrigerator hummed two rooms away. The air-conditioner fan kicked on. A muffled click came from the driveway near where she’d parked.
Had she locked the car door before running into the house tonight? She couldn’t remember. Might as well lock it now. She fetched her key ring, aimed her fob at the driveway, and pressed the lock button. From the window she could see her headlights blinking in response.
Then she heard a clatter from behind the house.
Chapter 14
Val stood in the side vestibule, clutching her keys so tightly they dug into her palm. She heard no more noises from the backyard, but silence worried her more than sound. If she called 911, how long would it take for the police to respond? Right now, she’d settle for getting rid of whatever was out there, and she had the perfect tool to do that fast.
She pressed the alarm button on her car remote. The car horn blared in the driveway. Beep. Beep. Beep. Obnoxious noise. Val covered her ears with her hands. After thirty seconds she hit the button again to silence the car.
The phone rang. Harvey, the neighbor on the other side of the driveway, complained about the alarm. She apologized without explaining why it had gone off.
She tiptoed to her grandfather’s closed door. She cracked it open and heard him snoring. At least the horn hadn’t disturbed him. A little hearing loss contributed to a good night’s sleep.
Had it woken anyone else? Val peeked out the front window. A police car pulled up to the curb. She grabbed a light coat from the closet, put it on over her nightshirt, and opened the door to a man in uniform. He made a reassuring presence with broad shoulders and a fortyish weathered face. He’d heard the alarm while on patrol. Someone on the street had called the police to report a possible car theft at Val’s address.
She explained about the noises in the driveway and the backyard. His head bobbed up and down in sympathy until she got to the part about the alarm.
“You purposely set off a car alarm at two in the morning? I could give you a citation for that. We have noise ordinances in this town.”
His words stunned her into silence—for three seconds. “You’re going to ticket me for protecting myself? What was I supposed to do? Let someone break into my house?”
“You got a problem, you call 911.”
Her car alarm had summoned the police faster than the 911 call she’d made to report the murder. Best not to mention that. Instead, apply the rules of a routine traffic stop. The cop is always right. A spoonful of humility makes the fine go away. “Sorry. I should have called 911. I was half asleep, not thinking straight.”
The weather report from the officer’s face switched from thunderous to partly cloudy. “Okay. I’ll call for backup and make sure no one’s lurking in the neighborhood.”
Another patrol car arrived within five minutes. The two officers spent a quarter of an hour checking behind her house and along the street. Nothing unusual, aside from an overturned metal watering can and a bike on its side. From their description, Val identified the bike as hers. The officers concluded she’d probably heard a raccoon knocking into things while trying to get into the trash.
The officer with the weathered face said, “By the way, if noises make you nervous at night, you should have more light fixtures around the sides and the back of the house. The bulb was loose in the one on the driveway side. I tightened it.”
Val pointed to herself. “I tightened that bulb this morning, and I’m pretty sure a raccoon didn’t loosen it.”
He laughed. “Nope, can’t pin that on the coon. You probably didn’t turn it all the way.”
The other officer frowned. “We’ll patrol the neighborhood for the next few hours, just in case. Good night, ma’am.”
Knowing that the police would keep an eye out tonight calmed Val and helped her sleep.
On her way to the club the next morning, she turned down Creek Road, Nadia’s street. Did the murderer park here on Monday night or walk to Nadia’s? Val stared at the creek, barely visible through the shrubbery around Nadia’s house. The road wasn’t the only way here.
All along the Eastern Shore, peninsulas jutted into the Chesapeake, splayed fingers of land gnarled by coves and wrinkled with creeks. A boat launched from any of those interconnected waterways around Bayport could have brought the murderer here. Easy to glide to Nadia’s dock by the light of Monday’s crescent moon. No one on the street would have seen the killer arriving by water and going into Nadia’s house through the back porch.
Val slid two quiches into the café oven. They should be ready before Bethany arrived at eleven to take over serving lunch. Val closed the oven and turned around.
A big-boned woman in a calf-length denim skirt stood at the entrance to the café alcove. Irene Pritchard had returned, probably with the same goal in mind as she’d had yesterday when she showed up after the café closed. She approached the counter at a funereal pace and sat on a stool, adding another few inches to her height.
Val nodded. “Good morning, Irene. I want to offer my condolences. It’s hard losing a neighbor.”
Irene donned the half-moon glasses dangling from her corded necklace and peered at Val over them. “I didn’t lose her. The good Lord took her back home.”
With help from a murderer.
Val would have to get over her awkwardness at talking to the woman who would have managed the café
if Nadia hadn’t interfered. Not only could Irene provide a neighbor’s perspective on Nadia, she might have seen something the night of the murder.
Irene scrutinized the café’s short menu. “Interesting. There’s almost nothing on your menu like what I served in my tea shop. We had scones, meat pies, sausage rolls, and cucumber sandwiches on crustless bread.”
Hard to imagine the gym rats laying down their barbells to lunch on cucumber sandwiches. “Can I get you some coffee, Irene? Iced tea? A smoothie?”
“How about a cup of herbal tea?”
Val reached in the back of a drawer, feeling around for the herbal tea bags she’d stashed away. “The club members usually order high octane black tea on ice, but I should have some herbals, peppermint or chamomile, in my tea bag collection.”
“Tea bags? Not loose tea? I’ll have decaf iced coffee instead.”
“Coming up.” Val didn’t need tea leaves to tell her she faced a tough cookie. She filled a glass with ice.
“By the way, did you enter the contest for the Treadwell Gazette’s new food columnist?”
Ah. That explained Irene’s visit. She must have entered the contest. She’d come here to find out if Val was competing with her again for a job.
Val looked her in the eye. “I didn’t even know about the contest until it was too late to enter.” She hoped her answer would clear the air between them. She poured the decaf coffee over the ice and set the drink in front of Irene. “How long were you and Nadia neighbors?”
“More than fifteen years. She moved next door just about when Jeremy was starting school. He was crazy about her.”
Val heard the warmth in Irene’s voice when she mentioned her son. “Nadia thought the world of him. Tell me why he liked her so much.”
“She spent time with him. She used to read him stories and think up games that would help him learn his letters and numbers. School was hard for him.”
Chalk up another point for Nadia the Good, catching up fast to Nadia the Evil. “I heard she helped Jeremy get a job at the diner too.”
Irene stirred sugar into her iced coffee. “She practically dragged him there. He was too shy to go on his own. Now he’s real happy at his work.”
Val poured herself a hot coffee and walked around the counter to sit next to Irene. “Where did Nadia live before she moved next door to you?”
“Virginia Beach. She met Joe when he was on vacation there. He’s from this area. After they got married, they settled here.”
“Does she still have family in Virginia?”
Irene sipped the iced coffee. “Not anymore. Her parents are dead. She was an only child. There’s an aunt and uncle up in New England, but they’re getting on. She always said that the folks at the club were like family to her.”
A family that might include a murderer. “I can’t believe someone could go into Nadia’s house and kill her without anyone in the neighborhood noticing. Did you see or hear anything unusual the night she died?”
“The houses aren’t that close. We were watching television. It’s always on real loud because Roger’s hard of hearing.”
“What about the neighbors on the other side? Could they have heard anything?”
“The Marshalls have been in Europe the last few weeks. Not due back ’til after Fourth of July. As for Mr. Grant, across the way from Nadia, he was probably drunk as usual and passed out. Most nights everybody’s inside minding their own business. That’s why someone could get away with setting fire to that racket.”
“Did you tell anybody about the fire?”
“Just Roger.”
Val had tried conversing with Irene’s husband, Roger, at Nadia’s party, and found it rough going, possibly because of his hearing problem. Calling him taciturn was like calling an anorexic slender. Roger probably hadn’t spread the story of the burned racket. “How’s Jeremy coping with Nadia’s death?”
“He offered to move back in, to protect us in case someone came to murder us in our beds. You could see he was pretty scared too, but he wanted to defend his folks.”
“That’s sweet of him. Would you like him to move back?”
“I had mixed feelings when Luke offered him the apartment. Roger and I are getting on. We have to think about the future.”
Val couldn’t tell if Irene wanted Jeremy to practice living independently, which he’d have to do eventually, or if she wanted him home to help as she aged. “How did Nadia feel about Jeremy leaving home?”
“I talked it over with her. She said she’d miss having him around, but she couldn’t see any harm in Jeremy giving it a try if he wanted.”
Val had assumed Nadia had a larger role in Jeremy’s move away from home than Irene said. “Living next to Nadia, you must have seen who her friends were and who came over to visit her.” Maybe even who was lurking in a car across the street, watching Nadia’s house.
“She didn’t have a lot of friends. Nadia was real lonely after Joe moved out. Of course, she was holding up better than when the baby died.”
Val’s head jerked up. “What baby?”
“Nadia had a hard pregnancy eleven or twelve years ago. She had to stay in bed for months. Her poor little boy didn’t live long after birth. She kept trying to have another baby, but the Lord didn’t bless her with one. I think that’s why she took such an interest in my boy.”
Did Nadia, in her early forties, still hope for a child, if not with her husband, then with another man? Granddad’s scenario of Maverick killing his pregnant lover didn’t sound as farfetched as it had yesterday.
Val hadn’t learned anything from Irene about the night of the murder, but at least she now had a new piece in the jigsaw puzzle of Nadia’s life. Irene had put a face on the vulnerability that Althea had insisted was just beneath Nadia’s façade. Losing a child left a wound that never completely healed.
A trio of women in body-hugging aerobic togs came into the café and sat at a bistro table.
Val jumped down from the counter stool. “Excuse me. I have to take care of these customers.”
The three women all ordered the smoothie special of the day: strawberries, crushed pineapple, banana, yogurt, and OJ. While Val made the smoothies and took the quiche pans from the oven, she felt Irene watching her like an old pro grading an amateur’s performance.
Irene refused a refill on her coffee. “I used to make quiche at the tea shop.”
Val guessed Irene wanted to compare her own quiche with these. She pointed to the veggie one. “This is a sundried tomato and spinach quiche. The other one’s artichoke and prosciutto. Would you like to try a piece when they cool down?”
“Not necessary.” Irene glanced at the table where the young women chatted. She leaned toward Val. “I know something other people don’t know about Nadia’s death.”
An overlooked detail or a new suspect? Val felt a tingle of excitement and a bit of apprehension. People who know secrets about murders usually end up murdered too, at least in books and movies.
“The best thing you can do is tell your secret to the police.” Val kept her voice low, taking a cue from Irene’s tones.
“They already know, and so do you. Most people think you got to Nadia’s house after the police. I know you were there first. Why are the police hiding that and not saying how Nadia died?”
Val stiffened. Irene’s whisper, full of s sounds, reminded her of a hissing serpent. “The police often withhold details about crimes to help them trap the culprit.”
“I live right next door. I have a right to know if there’s a danger in the neighborhood.”
What did she fear? A biohazard? A serial killer? “I don’t think Nadia’s death was related to any neighborhood threat.”
“How . . . did . . . she . . . die?” The words barely escaped from behind Irene’s clenched teeth.
Val sympathized with her. The police ought to release enough details to calm the neighbors. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. You’ll have to ask the police.”
Irene
left without paying for the iced coffee.
Val took the half-empty glass from the eating bar. The more she thought about Irene’s behavior, the less odd it appeared. People reacted to Nadia’s demise based on their own concerns. Irene fretted about the neighborhood, Mrs. Z recalled someone else’s death, and Monique worried about the safety of her children.
The three women finished their smoothies and left the café. As Val cleared their table, Bethany arrived to relieve her.
“I hope the lunch menu doesn’t include strawberries, tomatoes, or beets. That red diet was murder.” Bethany covered her mouth. “I shouldn’t use that word lightly.”
With the café empty, Val seized her chance to ask Bethany a few questions. “When Chatty told you about the burned racket, did she say where she’d seen it?”
Bethany donned an apron over her sundress printed with tropical flowers. “In the trash container at Nadia’s house. Why are you asking?”
“Just curiosity.” About whether Bethany could have passed that information to her brother. Val moved the blender to the sink and took it apart to wash it. “Did you tell anybody about the burned racket?”
“Just Bigby. I called him when I got off the phone with Chatty. Wasn’t I supposed to tell?” Bethany sounded defensive. “Nadia didn’t care. She treated it like a big joke.”
“I didn’t know you talked to her about it. When was that?”
“Monday afternoon.”
Val’s grip tightened on the blender as she washed it. “You saw her on Monday? Where?”
“The diner. I went there to pick up a sub after our teacher’s meeting ran late. She’d already eaten. I stopped at her table to prove I didn’t hold a grudge about how she ditched me. When I mentioned the racket burning, she said she didn’t take it seriously.”
Or pretended she didn’t, to show that the incident hadn’t intimidated her. Val wished she knew what else Nadia had said in the diner. “Nadia tried to reach me later that afternoon. I never got back to her. Maybe she talked to you about what was on her mind.”
By Cook or by Crook Page 13