by Cate Price
It hadn’t taken me long at the park to realize it wasn’t the dogs you had to worry about, it was the owners. A nervous, insecure human invited aggression by making his or her pup feel as though it had to step up and take charge.
I sipped the zinfandel. It was sweeter than I liked, but hey, it was wine.
“Doesn’t Bettina Waters come to the park anymore?” Alice asked. “I haven’t seen her in ages.”
“She’s preggers, you know.” Ruthie glugged down the rest of the pink liquid in her glass. “At least he’s going to make an honest woman of her. I hear they’re getting married next month.”
Alice made a harrumphing sound. “She’s a nice girl, but she—well, she can be rather odd at times.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, my ears pricking up.
“My husband and I had a dinner party once, and I found her in my family room, going through my photo albums. Apparently she’s so self-conscious about the way she used to look that she removes her old photos when she visits people’s houses.”
Was there some deep dark secret that would jeopardize Bettina’s upcoming marriage to Birch if he found out? She had a motive to kill Harriet, but why Sophie, too? Unless Sophie had some incriminating evidence against her. But would a person really commit murder over an unflattering photo?
Ridiculous, Daisy. Have some more wine.
Caroline came back with the tiny dog in her arms. “I am so not speaking to Ginny Axelrod,” she declared. “You know how hard it is to find good cleaning people? She just stole the woman who works for my good friend Rachel.”
She sat cross-legged on the blanket, balancing the wriggling dog and her glass of wine. “My husband likes my girl—too much so for my liking. He says he’s not attracted to her, just her laid-back personality. But I’m keeping Angel. She’s the best I’ve ever had, and no one’s going to steal her from me.” She gave a derisive nod in the direction of the other clump of wine club participants. “So, too bad, people!”
Ruthie leaned closer to me. “There’s always a battle going on to find the best, and they all poach from each other.”
“The one I had before Angel?” Caroline continued. “Ohmigawd, if I told the woman once, I told her a thousand times. Put the forks in the dishwasher with the tines up and the knives pointing down! How hard is that to remember, I ask you? She never stacked the dishes right, either. She’d put plastic on the bottom, shove pots and pans in there, she did everything wrong. It drove me crazy.”
“Cheese and crackers,” Ruthie muttered in my ear. “I have the same cleaning woman as Marybeth Skelton. She’s the best. I pay through the nose, but it’s worth it to keep her. Don’t tell this lot,” she whispered as Caroline commiserated with Alice Rogan about the paid help who used Tilex on travertine tiles, and were seemingly oblivious to smears on stainless steel appliances.
I zoned out a little as they talked about the correct way to fold laundry.
Would there have been any reason for Bettina to go over to Sophie’s house the night she died? Perhaps with an emergency supply of insulin? Could a patient order insulin to be delivered directly from a medical supply place, or did it have to go through her doctor? I didn’t know how that worked, but made a mental note to find out.
Alice was delivering a monologue about her four grown children and grandchildren, as if she were in charge of every aspect of their lives. I envisioned a massive whiteboard in her house dotted with multicolored Post-it notes where she kept track of it all, like a detective’s situation room in a murder investigation.
“What about The Dazzle Team, the cleaning company that Harriet Kunes used?” I asked Ruthie. “Are they good?”
“Heck, yes. They also clean the Historical Society buildings.”
Well, there was proof that they were completely trustworthy. No one would dare cross Eleanor.
“Speaking of Harriet,” I said, “did you ever hear about her sabotaging other competitors’ dollhouses? Like she did to Ardine Smalls?”
“Oh, you mean the old cockroach story?” Ruthie barked with laughter. “Not sure if that’s urban legend or not, but I heard it was the other way around.”
Was Ruthie confused? In her rosé-soaked reality, it might be tough to keep things straight.
She got up and picked up her backpack. “I’m taking the RV to Florida in the morning. Max and I will be there all winter.”
I grinned as I got up and helped her fold the blanket. I hoped I had half her spunk when I reached her age. “Have a good time. Drive safely. See you in the spring?”
“If you’re lucky.” She winked at me. “I don’t buy any green bananas these days.”
I noticed a woman with a Great Dane heading off toward the woods, towing it slowly behind her like a small pony. “Where’s she going?”
“Oh, didn’t you know?” Alice said. “That path takes you all the way to Millbury. It comes out near that house with the big pumpkin patch. It’s about a mile and a half walk if you’re up to it.”
“That’s great.” I wouldn’t have to take the car anymore and use precious gas. Why hadn’t I figured this out before? Grist Mill Road twisted around on its route from Millbury, but I could see now how this path could cut straight through.
Today I’d have to drive the car back, but next time I’d give it a try.
I got up, gave Ruthie a hug good-bye, and called to Jasper.
More of the wine club drifted over, including Ginny Axelrod, who ignored me as usual.
“Heard that Marybeth finally found a buyer for the Rosenthal place,” she said to the group. “It’s always tough when someone died in a house. Turns buyers off.”
I bent down, pretending to adjust Jasper’s leash.
“With the age of the places around here, there’s a good chance that someone died in them at some point in time,” Alice pointed out in a reasonable tone.
“Where did Sophie live, anyway?” someone else asked.
“Up on Cook Hill Road. A Tudor-style house,” another woman replied.
Thanks for the information. I stayed in my half-crouched position. I think they’d forgotten I was there.
“Yes, Marybeth is doing very well for herself,” Ginny said. “Apparently there’s a new waterfront development in the works and she’ll be the broker of record.”
The talk moved back to cleaning services and the troubles with their particular employees. I straightened up, one painful vertebra at a time, and strolled to the car with Jasper.
As I was pulling out of the road that led from the park, I jammed on the brakes as a black Audi came flying by, with a white Mercedes on its tail, both occupants driving like maniacs.
“Jeez. Coincidence?” I said to Jasper. “I think not. Where are those two going?”
I followed as closely as I dared, hanging back on the corners like I’d seen in the movies, and when Chip Rosenthal and Marybeth Skelton pulled onto Cook Hill Road, I kept going past the street and then doubled back.
A minute later, I drove down Cook Hill, keeping a constant speed and slumping down in the driver’s seat as I passed Sophie’s house, where Marybeth was already attaching a SOLD banner to the sign on the lawn. In my rearview mirror, I saw Chip jump out of the Audi. He was wearing a black knit cap, gray hoodie, and black sweatpants.
I banged a hand on the steering wheel when I saw the knit cap. Gotcha.
Once I was far enough away, I made a U-turn and parked in the shade of some trees growing close to the road.
“Jasper, I’ll be right back. Be good, okay? Just for a few minutes?”
He panted at me and began whining. As I opened the car door, he gave a sharp bark. “Oh, come on then, but please keep quiet. Good boy.”
We crept slowly up the road, lingering behind a privet hedge on the next-door neighbor’s yard. I strained to hear their conversation, but it was hopeless. I was too far away.
The property was a fine old Tudor, but in need of some major landscaping and TLC. There was a huge oak tree to the left side of Sophie’s house, its great branches almost touching an upstairs window.
As I crouched there uncertainly, Chip and Marybeth disappeared inside the house.
“Come on, Jasper.” I sprinted for the old tree, and the dog, delighted by my unaccustomed speed, bolted with me. Once I was behind the trunk that was wide enough to hide us both, I realized I was no better off. The windows were shut. I could see them in the downstairs living room, but couldn’t hear a thing.
Marybeth stroked a long red fingernail down his chest, while Chip, who was facing my way, looked as if he was about to choke.
Suddenly he strode toward the window and my heart lurched in my chest.
He threw up the sash and leaned out a little, sucking in air. “God, it’s stuffy in here. Sophie always kept this place locked up like a tomb.”
“Well, it’s sold now, and you know how I can’t wait to get started on our next project together, Chipper.”
“For the last time, don’t call me that.” He gritted his teeth. “And I already told you, things are right on schedule, so chill out. The site plan’s been reviewed by the county planning commission. It’s at the township for approval.”
She shook her head. “I still can’t believe it. Good old Sophie owning all those prime acres along the Delaware River.”
Aha. Guess I could kiss any help with the zoning good-bye. Marybeth was snuggled up in bed with Chip, and would have his best interests at heart. Maybe that’s why she’d been so accommodating to try to find me another location.
“The bank has assured me financing won’t be a problem,” Chip said. “As soon as we have the building permit, you can start taking deposits.”
Jasper was pulling on the leash, so I fumbled in my pocket and found a single dog biscuit. I broke off one minute crumb at a time and fed it to him. He looked at me as if to say, I knew you were cheap, Daisy, but this is ridiculous.
“This development will be an asset to the waterfront, and the township knows it,” Chip said. “Plus we’re improving the roads and adding connections to the public sewer, which should keep everybody happy.”
Jasper nudged my pocket and gave a muffled whine, and I searched frantically for another treat.
“Did you hear that?” Marybeth came to the window and scanned the yard while I gently cupped my hands around Jasper’s mouth. Sweat beaded on my forehead.
“What?” Chip’s cell phone rang. It was the theme from Pink Floyd’s “Money,” and the sound of cash registers and falling coins drowned her out.
The window slammed shut, and soon after that I heard the sound of the front door closing. I waited until both cars had driven off down the street before I headed back to the Subaru.
Could the unholy alliance of Chip and Marybeth have killed Sophie to get the prime commercial land, and then Harriet, too, to shut her up about the will?
Nothing like killing two old birds for one condo development.
Chapter Twelve
On Friday, I was at Sometimes a Great Notion, looking through my auction listings when Eleanor walked in. “What are you doing today, Daisy?”
“There are a couple of auctions I’m interested in, but I’m not sure I should be buying more merchandise with the way things are going. Where’s Martha?”
“Shopping for her big romantic getaway. And you need a day off to forget about your troubles. Come with me to Fabric Row.”
I grinned. “Now that does sound tempting.”
“Come on. It’s the best offer you’ve had all week and you know it.”
My mouth watered at the idea of silk chiffon and vintage buttons.
Eleanor tapped her foot on the floor. “Blessed are the flexible for they shall not get bent out of shape.”
“Okay, okay, I’m coming.”
When Laura arrived, Eleanor and I hurried out of the store, but I stopped in dismay when I saw the red Vespa parked outside.
“Oh no, I’m not riding to Philly on the back of that thing. We’ll take my car.”
Eleanor shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
We walked back down Main Street toward the house. Across the street, a sign in the psychic’s window advertised palm readings for ten dollars.
“I wonder how long a psychic can stay in business here at those prices,” I mused, visions of vacant storefronts dancing like spots before my eyes.
“Have you ever gone in there? Had your fortune read?”
I clicked open the locks on the car. “Not sure I believe in that stuff.”
“You’d be surprised,” Eleanor said, giving me an arch look as she slid into the passenger seat. We made a quick stop at the diner for coffee to go, and we were off.
Just under an hour later, we were wandering down historic Fabric Row in Philadelphia, situated roughly between South and Catharine Streets. At the turn of the twentieth century, there would have been pushcarts trundling along here, where Jewish immigrants plied their trade and eventually opened brick-and-mortar establishments.
It was full of dressmakers, upholsterers, costumers, and drapery workrooms. One shop sold nothing but bridal accessories. Another was just for sewing notions, and others sold blinds and shades, bedding and pillows.
We entered the first shop, enjoying the familiar sight of bolts of fabric crammed together, and battered cardboard boxes with yards of rayon cord valance, piping, and beaded trim spilling out over the tops. There was a long row of cutting tables in the back and, as usual, a wizened proprietor perched on a stool somewhere in the shadows.
“God, I’m exhausted,” Eleanor said. “That maniac, Tony Z, decided he has a crush on me. He’s been singing outside my bedroom window at all hours of the night.”
Tony Zappata, the barber, had a beautiful operatic tenor voice with which he entertained clients as he gave them a short back and sides.
“He really has a very nice voice,” I murmured.
“Not at three o’clock in the morning!” she snapped. “I finally called the police and had him arrested for disturbing the peace.”
“Ah, poor Tony. The perils of unrequited love.”
“It’s not funny, Daisy. You try listening to ‘Una Furtiva Lagrima’ when you’re trying to sleep.”
I was about to make a joke about catching some z’s, but after glancing at the grim set of Eleanor’s mouth, I decided against it. I felt sorry for Tony. The little barber was perennially sunny-natured, and it wouldn’t be a bad match.
Okay, he was rather short, but Eleanor wasn’t that tall herself.
What the heck was going on in Millbury? Was there some kind of aphrodisiac in the water supply?
We browsed as much as we could, although this particular store was so stuffed with fabric piled to the ceiling, it wasn’t easy. If you knew what you wanted though, chances are they had it stashed somewhere.
We walked back out on the street and continued our prowl.
“My grandmother was a milliner,” I told Eleanor. “I used to wander around the Garment District in New York with her looking in dusty windows just like this.” As a child, I was hypnotized by the towering displays of French ribbons, pearl buttons, glass beads, and velvet and satin passementerie that were used to trim hats.
The next shop had gold lettering on its display window proudly stating it had been in business since 1919. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but inside was a wondrous textile emporium.
A seamstress’s dream.
Eleanor made a beeline for a bolt of white gauzy material. “I need some of this English bridal net. It’s fantastic. Actually I’ll need lots of it.”
It struck me for the first time that Eleanor worked with brides-to-be all day long, yet she’d never been married
. I knew she had a fiancé who had died at the very tail end of the Vietnam War. But at this point, it didn’t look like she’d ever get to wear one of her beautiful creations.
She was always so self-contained, yet how much pain did that prickly façade hold?
Even though Martha and Eleanor were both my good friends, I was probably closer to Martha. But of the two, Eleanor was the one who understood the thornier, crueler side of life.
We also shared a love of history, and a wedding gown could hold a wealth of stories and meaning. It truly was a piece of the past that needed to be conserved. Eleanor had a master’s degree in textile science, and sometimes gave lectures to local colleges on fabric preservation.
True bridal net crackles satisfyingly against your fingers, and I played with it while she picked out some seed pearls. Eleanor paid the forbidding old man at the counter for her purchases, getting the customary ten percent trade discount, and we moved on to the next store.
“I’m experimenting with different herbal teas to dye lace,” she told me. “I need to get an exact match on that lace I bought from you to repair some missing sections on Bettina Waters’s wedding dress. Apple cinnamon seems to work well, but I’m anxious to try orange pekoe.”
“How’s the dress coming along?”
“Almost done, and not a minute too soon, as a matter of fact. The woman had a complete meltdown in my shop the other day.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, when she was getting changed, I commented on the beautiful gold cross necklace she always wears. Apparently she’s extremely religious and it’s vitally important to her that the baby is born legitimate.”
“What would she have done if Harriet hadn’t conveniently died?”
Eleanor looked at me, her gray eyes somber. “Exactly. She told me how frustrated she was by Harriet’s refusal to grant Birch a divorce, and then she burst into tears. I mean, she went completely hystérique, screaming about how she couldn’t possibly wait two years. I fully expected her little head to turn around three hundred and sixty degrees.”
“Do you think it’s just pregnancy hormones?”