by JoAnna Carl
“Extremely odd. For several years back then, every spring she would come over and tell me she needed Joe to mow her lawn. She said she was going away to stay with relatives and renting the house out for the summer. And the house was really a problem to the neighborhood. Lots of wild parties.”
“In your neighborhood?”
“Her renters seemed to be single guys. And they didn’t come for the beach or the boating. It was party time several nights a week. One year there was even nude sunbathing in the backyard.”
“Was a Warner Pier Realtor handling the house?”
“None of them ever admitted it. And one year it got so bad I tried to find out.”
“Did you complain to Mrs. Rice?”
“Yes, but the situation didn’t change. She just said that the renter had a lease, and she couldn’t control his behavior.”
“Seems as if the lease would have some provision that would have given her some control.”
“It should have. The whole situation was really odd. Mrs. Rice was so very prim and proper, yet she rented her house to these—well, unprim and improper people.”
“Did she ever tell you who the mysterious renter was?”
“She may have said he was a car dealer. Anyway, he was using the house to entertain clients.” Mercy paused. “But that’s not very illuminating. You know what a summer rental costs in Warner Pier. Only well-to-do people can afford one.”
Mrs. Rice said that her renter was a car dealer? Of course I thought of Good-Time Charlie. But Americans usually use “car dealer” to refer to a person who owns a new-car franchise. Charlie might own a big, successful operation, but I’d still call him a used-car salesman.
Mercy was speaking again. “Why did you want to know all this?”
“I just got curious. I guess you’d say Mrs. Rice is an interesting character. For example, everybody agrees she was a terrible teacher who didn’t like her students. So why did she become a teacher at all?”
“In her day it was considered a good job for a woman. It was that or secretarial school. I went for secretarial school.”
“You’re a lot younger than she was, Mercy!”
“Yeah, but my parents had her generation’s attitude. I was just lucky I landed with my own business. Whoops! Mike’s on the other line.”
Mercy hung up, and I stared at my desk. Yes, I thought, Mercy had been lucky. But she’d also been smart. She’d been in her mid-twenties when she was left a widow with a five-year-old son. Joe’s dad was killed in a work-related accident, so she received an insurance settlement. She was smart enough to invest that money. Then, with babysitting help from her parents, she’d gone to work as a secretary at the local insurance agency. She learned the insurance business from the ground up, passed the required exams, and when the agent retired ten years later, she was able to use the money from her investments to buy him out. Joe had told me she’d been able to save much of the Social Security survivors payments she received for his support as a college nest egg for him. I had great admiration for my mother-in-law’s financial and professional acumen.
Two widows—Mercy Woodyard and Verna Rice. It was interesting to contrast the way each of them had handled their lives financially.
Did their actions reflect the states of their marriages? Joe’s dad had been less than thirty when he died. A crewman on a Great Lakes freighter, he drowned when the ship sank in a storm. Joe’s parents had been married only six or seven years, and, as a freighter crewman, his dad had spent long periods of time working away from home. But one of Joe’s few memories of him was how happy his parents had always been to see each other when his dad came home.
How old had Verna Rice been when Dan Rice died? Since she had been well over eighty when she died, she must have been around forty. The Rices had never had the long separations that Joe’s parents had had, but the descriptions Charlie and Shep provided didn’t make their marriage sound happy.
Once again I wondered why Verna Rice had spent forty-plus years of her life trying to prove her husband hadn’t committed suicide. Was it just the money? Then why did she refuse a settlement when the insurance company finally offered one? Why didn’t she move on with her life?
I’d done all that musing, and I was still at the office when I wanted to be home. I stood up to leave, but the phone rang. The caller ID told me it was Joe.
I was still so mad at him that I almost didn’t answer. I let three rings go by before I picked up.
“Lee, the weirdest thing just happened!” Joe’s voice sounded eager. “You remember the note that Shep Stone claimed he got? The invitation Nettie says she didn’t send.”
“Sure.”
“Shep found it.”
“Where was it?”
“In the motel wastebasket. I guess the trash never got dumped over the weekend. And it was still in the envelope.”
“What does the handwriting look like?”
“Nothing like Nettie’s. Shep still thinks Mrs. Rice sent it. Jackson is now trying to find something Mrs. Rice wrote so he can compare.”
“That’s interesting, Joe, but—”
“Jackson’s calling me,” he said. “I wanted you to know that Nettie definitely didn’t write it. Now, if we can just convince Jackson you didn’t slash your own tires, both the TenHuis women will be in the clear. Talk to you later.”
He hung up, leaving me with my jaw dropped clear to my bosom.
“In the clear?” He was trying to get Aunt Nettie and me in the clear?
I punched the OFF button of my phone viciously. Honestly ! The idea that either of us had done those things—written the note to Shep or fabricated that chase story—was totally idiotic. It was simply impossible that Lieutenant Jackson could be thinking that of either of us.
Was Joe losing his mind? Or was Lieutenant Jackson losing his?
It was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard of.
Darn. There was that word again. Stupid. I hadn’t forgiven Joe for using it to refer to me, and I’d better not use it either.
I tried to push the fight with Joe out of my mind. So Shep Stone actually had received a letter purporting to be from Aunt Nettie. I could hardly blame the investigating officers for questioning this. Earlier that afternoon he said he’d been closely quizzed about Mrs. Rice’s death. He could be darn lucky the motel maids hadn’t gotten around to dumping his trash.
And Shep still suspected that Mrs. Rice had sent him the letter. But why? Why had she wanted Shep to come to Warner Pier? Did Shep know?
I could ask him.
I considered that for maybe thirty seconds, then shrugged and reached for my phone. After all, I was already known as the nosiest person in Warner Pier. I might as well call Shep and quiz him.
I still had his cell number in my little notebook, and he picked up on the first ring.
“I hear you found the invitation that claimed to come from Aunt Nettie,” I said.
“Yeah. I gave it to the cops.”
“Would you mind telling me exactly what it said?”
“It was kind of silly. I guess I should have known it didn’t come from Nettie. She was always—sweet, you know. And fun. But not silly.”
“But people change over the years, so you wouldn’t have known. What did it say?”
“Well, it said the Pier-O-Ettes were having a reunion with members of their high school class. And even though I hadn’t gone to high school here, she thought I would enjoy the reunion, and she wanted to ask me to come.”
He paused, and I gave him a nudge. “Did she say who else was coming?”
“No. She just said she had always remembered working with me at the old Castle. Some dumb remark about I’d always been a real Southern gentleman and it would be good to see me again. Then she added a PS saying to be sure to bring any pictures I had from those days. I thought that was kind of odd.”
“Why? After all, you’re a professional photographer.”
Shep didn’t answer, and in a moment I spoke again.
>
“Shep, I can understand why you came. It was a nice note and perfectly plausible.”
“I did wonder about why she didn’t send her phone number.”
“Obviously, whoever really sent it wouldn’t want you to call.”
“I tried to find the number. But the note was just signed, ‘Nettie Vanderheide Jones.’ And even in Warner Pier, I’m not going to call every Jones number to see if it’s the right one.”
“Actually, Hogan and Aunt Nettie have an unlisted number because of his being chief of police. But if you’d called any Jones in Warner Pier, they might have told you.”
“So whoever wrote it was taking a risk. But it was somebody who knew I’d been sweet on Nettie.”
“Oh, really?”
“Sure. She was as pretty as a picture and as nice as a cotton hat. Just like she is today.”
“She’s sure been nice to me. Do you still think the note came from Mrs. Rice?”
“Either her or—well, there’s one other person. Of course, there’s another question; how did the letter writer find me?”
“It’s pretty easy to find people today thanks to the Internet. Google ’em. Or use AnyWho.”
AnyWho. Suddenly I remembered my first glimpse of Mrs. Rice. She’d been at the Warner Pier Public Library, using the computer. I was so taken aback that I didn’t hear what Shep said and had to ask him to repeat his comment.
He sighed. “I said, but Nettie doesn’t seem to use the Internet.”
“True. Hogan and I have talked her into carrying a cell phone, but she still stays away from e-mail.”
When Shep spoke again, he moved to a completely different subject.
“Hey, your husband’s a lawyer, right?”
“Yes.”
“I may need one. I’m not sure how much I should tell these Michigan cops.”
“Joe’s not in private practice.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he works for an agency that provides legal services for people who can’t afford to pay for them.”
Shep gave a short, barking laugh. “That sounds like most of us.”
“He mostly helps with custody cases, appeals. Not much criminal work. Maybe he could recommend somebody.”
That idea seemed to appeal to Shep, so I offered to have Joe call him. Joe could make up his own mind about how much advice he was willing to give Shep.
I hung up more curious than ever. Then I called Joe to pass on Shep’s request.
He answered shortly, and he didn’t sound happy to hear what I had to say. I found his attitude annoying, but right at that moment I was still finding everything Joe did annoying.
I knew Joe usually turned requests like Shep’s over to a lawyer buddy. So I volunteered to pass him on. “Shall I tell Shep to call Webb?”
Joe sighed. “No. If Shep knows something, he needs an answer today, and Webb’s out of town. I’ll talk to him.”
He took Shep’s number.
I got up, again headed for home. I needed to get away from the office and quit thinking. I didn’t want to think about guys hiding in the backseats of cars, or naked men found dead in ballroom offices, or obnoxious old women running their cars into trees, or teenaged girl singers who grew up to be middle-aged women who got hysterical at the sight of trophies. Or about retired photographers who were antsy about talking to the police. Thirty minutes of mindless entertainment—that’s what I needed. I could barely wait to get home, prop my feet up, and turn on HGTV. A half hour of home décor sounded great.
And the telephone rang again.
“Now what!” I glared at the receiver on my desk. Then I sighed and answered it.
“Lee!” It was Aunt Nettie. “Is there a map of Warner Pier at the office?”
“I think there’s one in my filing cabinet. Why do you need it? I’d think you know every alley in Warner Pier.”
Aunt Nettie laughed. “I do, but some of these girls have forgotten.”
“What are the Pier-O-Ettes up to now?”
“We’re going on a bike hike!”
Chapter 22
“Where did you get that many bikes?”
“We’re getting them from Bob the Bike Man.”
Bob the Bike Man rents bikes to Warner Pier tourists from Memorial Day until Labor Day. “Oh,” I said, “I thought he’d packed everything away for the winter.”
“He said he could get six out easily.”
“Does everybody remember how to ride?”
Aunt Nettie laughed. “None of us do! We’re renting the three-wheelers. Bob assures us we can manage. They have comfortable seats, and they don’t fall over.”
“Where are you going?”
“Each of us wants to visit her old neighborhood—except Ruby. She lived too far in the country to ride out there. But when we did the scavenger hunt yesterday, a couple of people got turned around. So they wanted a map.”
“Not a bad idea. Just which neighborhoods are you going to ride through? Not that you have that many choices in a town this size.”
“Bob’s going to deliver the bikes at Julie’s house—I mean, the house where Julie lived when she was a kid. It’s farthest up on the hill. Then we’ll wind down toward the river until we pass all the houses.”
“So you’ll be going downhill for the whole ride?”
“Basically. Bob assures us the bikes have good brakes, and I hope he’s right! When we come down that hill on Fifth Street, we could fly right into the river!”
I agreed to bring the map by Aunt Nettie’s house, and we said good-bye. Aunt Nettie was still giggling, ready for the next adventure.
After I hung up I decided it was smarter to get the “girls” new maps, so they’d be up-to-date and each could have her own. I drove to the chamber of commerce office, went to the outside box they maintain for tourists, and picked up eight copies of the newest edition: one for each Pier-O-Ette, plus new ones for me and Joe.
Then, as soon as I’d dropped them off at Aunt Nettie’s, I drove home and figured out who had killed Verna Rice and might have killed her husband.
I didn’t intend to do that, of course. It was just the way my thought processes followed a series of ideas inspired by things people told me. Solving the mystery was purely accidental.
The first inspiration came when I saw the Garretts’ Cadillac parked in their drive.
The Garrett driveway is directly across Lake Shore Drive from our little sandy lane, and Dick and Garnet—yes, her name is Garnet Garrett—are friends of ours. They spend most of their time in Grand Rapids, where they lived full-time until Dick retired.
I had checked out their drive Friday night when Joe and I walked down to the scene of Mrs. Rice’s accident, and at that time a dark-colored truck had been parked in it. I had flashed my flashlight on it, wondering whether Dick and Garnet had come down unexpectedly, but then I ignored the truck, thinking that someone had pulled in there so they could walk down Lake Shore Drive and gawk at the accident. I’d noticed the license tag, which was 7214, just because I’m a number person and I notice numbers. The truck had been gone when Joe and I walked home, and I had pushed the episode out of my mind.
Now, seeing the Garretts’ car in the same spot made me remember the small truck. But again, I didn’t pay much attention. I was hoping for half an hour of mindless television watching. As soon as I got into the house—and I was nervous enough that I locked the doors once I was inside—I got a Diet Coke from the refrigerator, turned on the television, sat on the couch, and propped my feet up.
But somehow I couldn’t think about TV. That new map I’d picked up began to haunt me. I kept thinking about what it might show. I got up and retrieved my copy from my purse. Spreading it out on the coffee table, I looked at the downtown area.
That didn’t take long. Warner Pier’s downtown is five blocks long and two and a half blocks wide. I had been wondering how the guy on the motor scooter had managed to disappear so quickly, but after all, he hadn’t had far to go.
The last time I’d seen him, he’d been on foot right in front of TenHuis Chocolade, on Fifth Street, not far from Peach Street. (Nearly all Warner Pier streets are named for fruits; this is orchard country.)
I’d sprayed him with pepper spray through my partly open window. Then I’d driven off on my rims, tearing up two tires in the process. I’d gone two blocks to Herrera’s parking lot, located at the end of the business district. The Warner Pier PD and the Michigan State Police had arrived two or three minutes after that and started looking for the guy on the motor scooter. But no sign of him had been found.
The state police, judging from what both Lieutenant Jackson and Joe had said, were assuming that he might not exist.
But I knew he existed. He must have gotten out of the downtown area quickly. But why hadn’t I heard the sound of his engine? Actually, earlier the motor scooter had been surprisingly quiet, so maybe I had simply been too excited to listen for it. But I believed I would have heard something if he had ridden off.
A motor scooter would be fairly easy to hide. I hadn’t measured it, but it looked to be about five feet long and three feet high. The rider could have stashed it behind a large bush until the search for it was over.
However, there are no large bushes in downtown Warner Pier. We have ornamental trees planted in holes in the sidewalk, but we do not have bushes large enough to hide even a small motor scooter.
What did our downtown have that could hide a motor scooter?
A Dumpster? I was sure the law officers had searched behind every Dumpster in the downtown area. They’d probably searched inside every Dumpster, too, but it would be hard to lift a motor scooter into one. I didn’t think that was a practical plan.
Trucks or other vehicles? In movies they hide small cars inside trucks, but semis or even large panel trucks are not commonly found in downtown Warner Pier at night. The only one I could think of was the furniture store’s delivery vehicle, and after the store closes, it’s usually locked in the store’s garage.
Garage!
What a simple idea. And it would work. The rider could simply have ridden, or even pushed, his motor scooter into a garage. Then he’d lock the door and stay there until the coast was clear.