Cold Feet (Five Star Mystery Series)

by Karen Pullen

  Fredricks pursed his lips. “I’m just saying, be careful, sweetheart.”

  “Sure, I’ll check the closets before I go to sleep.” I sounded flip but underneath I felt a buzz of worry begin a slow spin.

  “Sleep sounds good. Listen, why don’t you go home.”

  “I will if you will.”

  Fredricks flicked open his phone and thumbed the buttons as he trudged out of the room. I sank onto the table and closed my eyes to wallow in paranoia. A threat from Jax. If Fern had talked to Jax, had she said anything about me? He might know exactly who I was. Oh, was I tired. And there was no cure except sleep, which wasn’t on my schedule.

  But it happened anyway. The combo of fatigue and anxiety and an utterly quiet office sent me into la-la land until my phone chimed.

  “Hope I didn’t wake you,” Hogan said.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve been up for hours.” I yawned and rubbed my eyes.

  “You sound like you just woke up. Listen, I’m going to be in a seminar all day so I wanted to get you this information. Got a pencil?”

  “Sure.”

  “Justine Bradley’s name change. Get this—she used to be a guy!”

  “Yeah, I know. What was her name before?”

  “John Nicholas Bradley. She changed it to Justine Nicole

  Bradley. The state issued her a new birth certificate, with the new name and sex. When did you know?”

  “As of the autopsy.”

  “This is a shocker,” Hogan said. “Did Mike know?”

  “He says he didn’t.”

  “Well, she sure fooled everyone.Was that why she was killed?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know much, do you.”

  I sighed. “Why don’t you just tell me what you know, Hogan.”

  “Justine had a life insurance policy, ten thousand dollars. Her brother is the beneficiary.”

  A brother? Justine’s family had been conspicuously absent from the wedding. Hogan gave me the brother’s address in Wilmington, and a phone number. “And you asked about Psylex, where Gia Mabe works. They manufacture human proteins from genetically modified plants. No mention of strychnine anywhere in their corporate literature. None of their scientists use it, according to their publications. And it took me seven hours to research that.”

  Oddly, I didn’t feel guilty. “Really helpful, Hogan, I mean it.”

  “Finally, Alice Ember was born at the Birthing Center of the Carolinas. Where, coincidentally—”

  “I know. Where Justine worked. Any connection?”

  “Funny you should ask. They wouldn’t tell me. But the Embers sued the birthing center three years ago, then settled for an undisclosed amount.”

  I wasn’t surprised to hear that, given the intensity of Lottie’s remarks about the “stupid birthing center.” And Evan being a lawyer. “Hogan, you’re a gem.”

  “Anything for you, Stella.”

  Then dump her skinny little ass, I thought. Instead, I said, “Thanks. Enjoy your seminar.”

  Normally I don’t drop in on Fern this early in the morning. Or without calling first. But I had a good reason to catch her off guard. Had she talked to Jax? Drug dealers were insanely suspicious. Did Fern say something that propelled him into hiding? I needed to reinforce my order: do not mention me to Jax.

  I drove west on Highway 64, against the morning traffic pouring into Raleigh. My favorite part of the drive is the two-mile stretch across Jordan Lake, a reservoir created from the damming of the Haw River for flood control. State land surrounds fourteen thousand acres of sparkling lake and boasts more bald eagles than any other spot in North Carolina. Someday I might have time to get out of my car and enjoy it.

  A buttery sun was burning the gray mist from Fern’s field and turning the tin roof of the farmhouse into a pearly mirror. I could hear Hillary and Bill requesting attention, or perhaps breakfast, from the donkey pen. I pushed open the front door.

  Baking smells came from the kitchen so I headed that way. Fern was measuring coffee; she makes an espresso-strength brew. “What’s for breakfast?” I said.

  “Darling! A surprise visit!” She gave me a hug, enveloping me in soft pink terry cloth. Her hair was damp and fragrant with lavender, the family scent. “Sit down. I’ll cook for you, for a change. I’m making bread.”

  “I need to stand up or I’ll fall asleep.You sit down.” I opened the fridge and took out butter, milk and eggs. The eggs reminded me of chickens and Jax. When the teakettle began to whistle, I poured water into a pot for grits, and the rest into the dented metal coffeepot, surely an antique by now.

  There was no point in beating around the bush; a direct question would be best. I turned to face Fern. She beamed at me.

  “Did you talk to Jax since yesterday?” I said. “Since I warned you about him?”

  She sat up straight. “Why?”

  Could I tell her? I’d already crossed the line by warning her about him, before the raid on his house. “Did you tell him you couldn’t see him again?”

  “He called. He asked me to a football game but I said no. I didn’t say never. I’d have to give him a good reason and what could I say?” The kitchen timer dinged. “Take the bread out, would you?”

  I took the two aromatic golden loaves from the oven, then poured two mugs of coffee. I added milk to mine until it was a drinkable color. Measured grits into boiling water, and started to scramble the eggs. “Haven’t you ever broken it off with someone?”

  She tipped her head. “Of course I have. I’ll think of something. But honestly, I want a nice chicken house.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. I was glad she hadn’t agreed to a date. There was a good chance she’d never see him again, but nothing was certain. My dilemma was this—how much could I tell her? The more she knew, the more dangerous it was for her. The less she knew, the more dangerous it was for me. I set our plates on the table. “Fern, you can get someone else to build you a chicken house. Harry or Ricky would do it for you.” I tilted her chin so she had to meet my eyes. “Jax is very very bad news. And never mention me. It’s important. Don’t tell him I talked about him, okay?”

  She didn’t blink. “I get it. I’m not good at subterfuge, though.”

  “You are excellent at subterfuge. And let me know if you hear from him, okay?”

  She nodded. Her mouth was full.

  After breakfast I went onto the porch to watch the morning mist over the field. Overhead, a flock of Canada geese honked directions to each other. The highway was a distant hum. I felt safe, as I did nowhere else, yet restless, not wanting to linger, a feeling left over from my teenage years, when anywhere was better than here.

  It was still too early to start making calls so I drove home. Merle greeted me with ecstatic tail-wags. “Okay,” I said, “we’ll go for a walk,” and he ramped up his dance into a whole-body boogie. If only some of his no-worries attitude would rub off on me.

  I drove south on 15-501 to the White Pines Nature Preserve. There were no cars in the parking area, so I let Merle off his leash and he vanished into the underbrush. I could hear him crashing about, and a woodpecker’s machine-gun staccato. Between these sounds, the great rustling silence of the forest eased my mind as I ambled along the trail. The deciduous trees sported their fall wardrobes, this season’s colors being wine-red and citrus hues that coordinated nicely with the blue-green of the pines and the graceful white trunks of the occasional birch.

  The trail was dry but not dusty, and easy walking. Eventually I reached the confluence of the Deep and Rocky Rivers. Merle brought me a stick and I pitched it for him. Beavers had been through the area, leaving a number of chewed-down tree stumps, marked by the ridges of their sharp incisors. Merle existed to hunt and retrieve. Beavers existed to build dams. What did I exist for? To entrap drug dealers, who’d stamp out my life as easily as they’d step on a cockroach? I sat on the banks of the gurgling, murky waters and waited for a perspective that would take me out of my funk
.

  Driving back north, I started making calls. Delia Scott said she’d be delighted to see me again, and we agreed to meet at noon the next day, at a restaurant in Southport. She said Webster could be available also, later in the afternoon.

  Another phone call, to the North Carolina Birthing Center where Ingrid and Justine both worked. I made an appointment with the director, for noon Monday.

  I called the number Hogan had given me for Justine’s brother and got his voice mail. I left my name and number, telling him I was an SBI agent who had to talk to him about his sister, tomorrow if possible, as I’d be in the Wilmington area.

  Tricia Scott’s answering machine forced me to listen to a feel-good affirmation. “I am a source of light for others. I am on the perfect path for me right now. I choose aliveness and growth. Please leave a message after the beep.” I left my number; perhaps returning calls was on her alive, growing, well-lit path.

  My phone chimed and Wyatt said, “Why do I pay taxes?”

  “I’m not following.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. You’re missing the point as usual. Last night someone spray-painted ‘MURDER! STAY AWAY!’ on my sign out by the road. My beautiful sign I paid a thousand bucks for. It’s ruined.”

  “You must have some idea who did it.”

  “I told you but you don’t listen. No one listens.” He went on for a while with this annoying pity party. At such times, I think what would Merle do? Merle is my role model for managing blame. Merle doesn’t feel guilty unless he’s done something wrong. Scolding him results in a long patient look from his golden eyes, a look that says as soon as you shut up, I’m going back to my bunny-in-the-shrubbery dream. No defensiveness, no passing the buck. So when Wyatt finally ended his speech, I promised to look into his claims.

  “You think someone is trying to put you out of business. Give me a place to start.”

  “BBAP. I told you about them. I’m successful. Competition scares those wusses.”

  I sighed. “I’ll look into it, Wyatt.”

  With Wyatt’s harangue echoing in my ears, I gave Hogan a quick call. “Who’s the president of the regional bed and breakfast association?”

  He click-clicked on his keyboard. “Her name’s Camilla Phillips. Pink Magnolia Manor.” He reeled off the directions. Camilla’s B&B was only two miles from the Rosscairn B&B, on the opposite side of the Haw River. Perhaps Wyatt’s claims of a rival’s jealousy weren’t so far-fetched after all. On an impulse, I turned onto Trestle Road, to pay my respects to the president.

  Pink Magnolia Manor was a classic Queen Anne Victorian, with oodles of gingerbread trim, a three-story octagonal turret, and a wraparound porch well-stocked with white rocking chairs. From the front porch, I counted seven colors ranging from white through glossy green to black. It was a house painter’s dream, though the peeling condition of the siding, balusters, and windowsills told me no painting had been done recently. A certain bounciness to the porch floor hinted at termites, and a cracked storm window to the right of the front door had been mended with tape. But the hanging pots of ivy and purple pansies and the red front door with its little panes of beveled glass pulled me in with a charming welcome.

  Camilla Phillips opened the door. She looked about forty, and size-two slender. She had big blue eyes and the kind of swingy smooth hair I’ve envied since first grade. She matched her inn, being both pretty and a bit worse for wear, with chipped nail polish and stains on her “Go Heels” tee-shirt. She managed a big grin and effusive greeting. “Come in, come in! Do you have a reservation?”

  I had to disappoint her. I flashed my ID. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

  She looked discomfited. “What’s this about? Is it my son?”

  “I have a few questions about your industry. I was referred here by a fellow innkeeper.”

  “Oh, sure, no problem. Let’s sit in the parlor.”

  She led me into a gracious room with twelve-foot ceilings and a fireplace surrounded by tiles. Each tile had a different bird painted on it. The furniture was, thankfully, not Victorian and I sank onto a comfortable chenille-covered couch. A layer of dust coating the floor made me feel right at home. From an antique birdcage suspended from the ceiling came the delicate chirping of two tiny birds, caramel-colored with red beaks.

  “Say hello to my finches,” she said. “I always have some tea this time of day. I’ll be right back.”

  I looked at my watch—eleven-ish. Refreshment would be welcome. In a few minutes, she returned with a red teapot in a quilted cozy and an entire Bundt-type cake drizzled with glaze. She looked at me inquisitively and I nodded.

  Melting in my mouth, the cake was moist and tender with hints of cinnamon and chocolate. I had to hold myself back from inhaling it in three quick bites. “What is that flavor?”

  “The secret ingredient is blackberry jam,” she said. “Now how can I help you? I do have to get back to work in a few minutes.”

  I told her I was working on the homicide that happened at the Rosscairn B&B.“What can you tell me aboutWyatt Craven?”

  She looked doubtful. “Is this off the record?”

  “I’m not a reporter, and you’re not in court. I’m just following up on leads. He’s not suspected of anything.”

  “Well, we’ve had some complaints. Typically, guests don’t complain unless they’re treated badly, you know? Stuff happens but you can always make someone happy with a discount or a little gift or a sincere apology. But Wyatt seems to rub people the wrong way. He probably shouldn’t be in the business.”

  A tiny moth floated in my tea so, under the guise of adding sugar, I spooned it out. I took a sip; the tea was delicious and I said so.

  “Lady Londonderry. I’ve heard it was Princess Di’s favorite.”

  “Wyatt’s a competitor of yours, right? Do the two of you refer business to each other?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Never.”

  “Why not?”

  “The official reason is our inns are completely different. The Castle’s more upscale, with whirlpools and fireplaces. His rates are twice mine.”

  “Your place is charming.” I meant it—compared to the violently plaid décor of a fake castle, Camilla’s B&B felt cozy and comfortable, moths, dust bunnies, and all—just like home.

  “Thanks. But we attract a different crowd. I get the broke young couples and visiting grannies. He gets the big spenders.”

  “You said ‘official reason.’ What’s the unofficial reason?”

  “When I started my inn five years ago, he paid me a visit. I thought he was being neighborly, and I was friendly. He misinterpreted, asked me on dates. I turned him down. Ever since then he’s bad-mouthed my place, warned people away. He’s a spiteful bastard.”

  I studied her. “Bastard” was such an old-fashioned word, like “illegitimate” and “unwed mother” that many people didn’t even know its meaning. I’d learned it quite early. I was about six years old when I overheard a playmate’s unkind mother whispering “little bastard” to her husband, explaining that my grandmother and I shared the same last name because my mother hadn’t been married. It was her whisper, her look, that conveyed the message of shame. So, depending on my mood and how much sleep I’d had, the word sometimes hit a nerve. Soothed by Lady Londonderry and delectable cake, I didn’t feel the sting. “So you don’t like him.”

  “Don’t like, don’t trust, don’t send business to, don’t want to be in the same room with.”

  “He’s had some problems, claims he’s being sabotaged,” I said. “Do you know anything about that?”

  “Poor baby.” She made a mock-sad face. “What kind of problems?”

  I thought back to what Wyatt had told me. “Maple syrup in the AC compressor, ammonia in the water softener, and a dead raccoon in the driveway. Most recently, spray-painting his sign.” It occurred to me as I spoke, that all these acts were exterior to the house, so anyone could have committed them.

  She frowned. “Lord, how awful. He mu
st have lost business.”

  “Does he have any vindictive enemies?” I added more tea to my cup. It made me feel perky.

  “Besides me, you mean?” She laughed. “He’s not well-liked, but us innkeepers are a tolerant lot. We don’t socialize much—we’re too busy—so it’s easy to avoid him.” She placed her cups and plate on the tray. “You finished?”

  I took the hint and stood up. “Thanks for the information. And the cake. Here, I’ll help.” I picked up the cake plate and followed her into the kitchen. The fridge was covered with family photos and I quickly scanned them. Dogs, babies, kids. And . . . “He looks familiar,” I said. I pointed to a snap of a teenage boy wearing a skull-and-crossbones tee-shirt and a sideways ball cap. It was Blue Stone, Wyatt’s helper at the Rosscairn B&B.

  “My son, Blue,” she said. “He’s sixteen going on six, or thirty, depending.”

  I looked at her. Was she clueless or just holding back? She should have told me her son worked for Wyatt. “I’ve met him,” I said. “At the Rosscairn Castle.”

  “Oh, yeah. He does odd jobs for Wyatt.”

  “You don’t have a problem with him working there? After what you’ve told me about Wyatt?”

  “Not at all. Wyatt pays him on time, treats him okay. I don’t think Wyatt knows he’s my son. Different last names and all. And it’s right across the river—he rides his bike.”

  “Wouldn’t Wyatt know, from Blue’s address, that he lives here?”

  “Nope. Wyatt never asked, since he pays cash, no taxes. Blue doesn’t care. In fact, he’d rather not have deductions.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

  “I wasn’t hiding it, if that’s what you’re implying.” She aimed her crystal blue eyes at me. “Now, I’m sorry, I have work to do.” She led the way to the front door. “Please come back!”

  When you’re a paying guest, she meant. Surely she didn’t want SBI agents hanging out on the pleasant cobwebby porch, watching the hummingbirds, consuming tea and cake, for free.

  What had I learned? It was hard to imagine this petite friendly innkeeper dripping maple syrup into Wyatt’s compressor. But the mix of competition and obsession sometimes produced unimaginable results—a NASA astronaut stalking her rival, an Olympic skater crippled by a competitor’s boyfriend, the screaming weeping fans at the latest Duke-Carolina game. Normal people, overcome by their inner dummy, morph into crazies.