“I think it’s about time I had a talk with Collette,” said Nancy.
“No, I’ll do it,” said Dave. “I feel bad for her.”
“Let’s go to the bookstore,” I said to Nancy. She grunted.
“I could shoot her, if you want me to, Snookie-Pie,” said Nancy.
“Please don’t,” Dave said. “And if you call me Snookie-Pie again, you’ll be the one who gets shot.”
I waved at Collette as we exited the police station. She didn’t return the gesture, but glared at Nancy without a word. Nancy glared back.
“Maybe I’ll just arrest her,” said Nancy. “Then shoot her later when she tries to escape.”
Eden Books was doing a good business. Hyacinth Turnipseed had hired a college student to come over from Appalachian State three mornings a week, and Wynette Winslow had been helping out while Hyacinth was in the hospital. Nancy and I walked into the little shop and were pleasantly surprised at the number of books that were now lining the shelves. Wynette was busily placing greeting cards in a rack and the college student, a young man identified by his nameplate as Tracy, was helping several customers with their purchases. There were Christmas decorations hanging throughout the store and several holiday book displays prominently crowding the narrow aisles. Hyacinth was in a wheelchair—a narrow, hand-operated model—one leg in a cast sticking straight out, perpendicular to the back, and resting on a pillow supported by a metal shelf. She looked drawn and significantly less jolly than the last time we’d seen her, not counting when she was lying on the sidewalk, one leg pointing south and the other northeast. Her white hair was still tied in a loose bun, but the shine was gone and her blue eyes were sunken. She smiled when she saw us, though, and gave a wave and we walked over to see her.
“I heard you came over to help when I had my accident,” she said. “Thank you so much.”
“There wasn’t much we could do,” I said. “Luckily the ambulance was right around the corner. How are you feeling? We got a hospital report from Cynthia.”
“I feel okay, but I’ll be in this chair for about a month. What a pain. I can’t drive, I can’t walk. I have to have a nurse with me.”
Nancy looked around. “Is your nurse here?”
“I sent her out to do some shopping. She’s a very nice woman. I know I’m old, but quite frankly, I’m used to my independence.”
“Well, we’re glad you’re on the mend,” I said.
“How are you doing with that murder case?” asked Hyacinth.
I looked over at Nancy and shrugged. “We’re still working on it.”
“I might be able to help you,” Hyacinth said, a twinkle reappearing in her eye. “I’m a clairvoyant. I do psychic readings for the police. Remember?’
“How could I forget?” I said, with a laugh. I looked at Nancy. She shrugged.
“Okay,” I said. “Sure. Why not? It’s Halloween, after all.”
“I’ll need something from the scene.”
“How about the krummhorn?” Nancy offered. “It’s back at the office.”
“Perfect,” said Hyacinth.
“I’ll get it and be right back.”
“Don’t shoot Collette,” I called after her.
•••
I wheeled Hyacinth into the back room off the bookstore as soon as Nancy arrived with the krummhorn. Hyacinth took the instrument in both hands and closed her eyes.
“Don’t you have to light some candles, or something?” I asked.
“Maybe draw a pentagram on the floor?” suggested Nancy. “Slaughter a goat?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Hyacinth. “Now, hush up.”
We stood in silence for a couple of minutes, then Hyacinth started talking.
“I’ve connected with a spirit—a woman. This is a recent spirit. She’s new to the Spirit world.”
“Probably Thelma,” I whispered to Nancy under my breath. Nancy rolled her eyes.
“She wants us to know that she’s not happy. Her spirit can’t find peace.”
“That’s Thelma, all right.”
“She says she wasn’t murdered, but that there was someone present at her death. Also, she wants her money back on this horn. She says it doesn’t work.”
Nancy and I were paying attention now.
“I’m seeing a large church—a French church. And the initials LP.”
I looked over at Nancy as Hyacinth opened her eyes and continued.
“There’s a life insurance policy. Not the one for the Upper Womb. Another one. It’s somewhere like…” Hyacinth closed her eyes again. “A bank. No. A safety deposit box. I’m seeing the numbers six, three and seven.”
We waited for more.
Hyacinth opened her eyes and looked at us with a smile. “That’s all I’ve got. Hope it helps.”
•••
“What do you think?” asked Nancy as we wended our way across the park. “Is she for real?”
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning let’s check out the insurance policy. If it’s in a safety deposit box, it’s got to be in Boone somewhere.”
“What about the French church?”
“An obvious reference to the cathedral in Chartres.”
“Not obvious to me!” said Nancy. “Why Chartres?”
“The painted labyrinth on which Thelma expired is a copy of the one in the Chartres Cathedral.”
“Would Hyacinth have known that?”
“I don’t know. But I wouldn’t think that it would be that hard for her to find out.”
“The krummhorn?”
“Again, I don’t know. We have been asking around. Ian Burch knew it didn’t work. Pete, Meg, probably some others. We didn’t exactly keep the information secret.”
“What about the initials LP?”
“That’s what’s interesting,” I said. “How would Hyacinth know about that?”
“About what?”
“About Lacie Peckelsham’s real name.”
Chapter 22
Halloween had come and gone without incident and I’d enjoyed a peaceful night at home, safe from the costumed imps that were out in force. Meg had decided that Ruby could use help passing out treats, and elected to stay in town. Nancy went through forty-five pounds of candy in an hour and had to make an emergency run to the Piggly Wiggly. Unfortunately, all the Pig had left were individually wrapped servings of Fig Newtons and, as a result, Nancy’s house was the target of some serious toilet-papering. Collette spent the evening across the street from Nancy’s house in a parked car, praying diligently, and handing out Bible tracts to kids that stopped and looked in the window hoping for something a little more confectionary than the four-step plan of salvation.
The next morning felt different altogether. A cold front had moved in during the night bringing with it low humidity, a stiff breeze and a seasonal snap that made all the suffering of summer seem worthwhile. I buttoned my coat against the wind as I made my way down the street toward the Upper Womb, keeping a wary eye out for Minques. The two tables on the large, covered front porch of the old house were empty. I suspected that the wind and the temperature drove the coffee and tea drinkers indoors. I walked up the four wide steps, opened the front door, and let myself into the hallway. Cynthia and Crayonella Washington were in the coffee shop sitting at a table for two, deep in conversation. They stopped as soon as they saw me. Cynthia got to her feet.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Espresso, please. You guys talking politics?”
“Yep,” said Crayonella. “We still have a day until the election.”
“I’ve seen your print ads in The Tattler. Very nice.”
“You should get a circular in the mail this afternoon,” Crayonella said.
“I look forward to it,” I said, and then turned to Cynthia. She was busying herself behind a large, complicated-looking coffee machine that might have been des
igned by a NASA scientist. It hissed like a Studebaker as Cynthia turned valves and pulled levers, intent on extracting two ounces of liquid from the gleaming stainless behemoth.
“Is Chad around?” I asked. Cynthia passed me a tiny cup full of espresso.
“He went to the farmer’s market in Asheville. He should be back this afternoon. But Lacie’s upstairs. You want me to get her?”
“That’d be great.”
Cynthia wiped her hands on her apron and disappeared into the hallway and up the staircase.
“What do you think of your chances?” I asked Crayonella.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Tell you the truth, it’s a hard town to read. We can’t afford any polling and I’m not sure it’d do any good, anyway.”
“Well, you’ve run a good campaign. I wish you both all the best.”
Cynthia interrupted my good wishes.
“Lacie’s in the massage room. She says you should go on up.”
“Thanks.”
I finished up my two ounces of coffee, put the miniature cup on one of the tables and headed up the stairs. The massage room was on the left as I made the second floor landing. I identified it almost immediately by the sign on the door saying “Massage Room.” I wasn’t a trained detective for nothing. I tried the door, found it unlocked, opened it and walked into the room. It was a room designed to be in perpetual twilight. The windows were covered with blackout drapes and the lighting carefully contrived to show the aromatic candles flickering on the mirrored walls. There was soft, unobtrusive music playing—music with no real melody surrounded by about four chords. Synthesized computer strings. Air pudding. I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust.
Lacie was sitting in a blue leather wingback chair, her long legs crossed and the hem of her skirt just a bit higher on her thigh than was prudent. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders and she looked at me with large eyes.
“Why don’t you let me give you a massage?” she offered. “It’s on the house.”
“No, thanks. I just need to chat, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all.”
“I just need to clear up a few things about the Thelma Wingler murder.” I watched Lacie’s posture change at the word ‘murder’, but just barely. “We have Chad in custody,” I lied, “so let’s start with what he’s already told us. We know all about the rhubarb tea. He admitted that the spa uses tea brewed from the leaves for some of the patients. You know the leaves are poisonous?” Lacie didn’t answer.
“He told us that you give the tea to patients and then, when they start to show symptoms—loss of their voice, swelling of the mouth and throat—symptoms brought on by a weak dose of oxalic acid, you simply give them another tea and they’re magically cured. They’re not really, but since they’re not drinking rhubarb tea, the problem clears right up.” Lacie was silent.
“I don’t know yet if we’re going to charge you and Chad in the murder of Thelma Wingler. We know you poisoned her, of course. But, according to Chad, you’ve done nothing wrong.”
Lacie shook her head. “Look, many cultures use rhubarb tea as a remedy for a host of ailments.”
“Yes. I looked it up. One part rhubarb to forty-five parts other teas.”
“We certainly didn’t kill Thelma.”
“Rhubarb tea was only part of it. Chad also told us that he advised her to abandon her OCD medication. It could be argued that she died as a direct result of your spa treatments.”
“Which may make us liable in a civil court when and if we’re sued by her survivors. But you’ll never prove anything in criminal court. OCD medication is still in the trial-and-error stage. You’d know that if you read the literature.”
“Hmm,” I nodded. “Added to that, Upper Womb Ministries will receive five thousand dollars from her will.”
“As I said before,” said Lacie, “we frequently solicit donations for our ministry. Five thousand dollars is hardly an amount worth killing over.”
“But, according to Chad, you didn’t actually know the amount before the will was read. It could have been considerably more.”
“I’m going to throttle him,” said Lacie, in disgust.
I nodded. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
“We didn’t kill her.”
“I’m not convinced.”
I walked out the door and headed down the stairs. Lacie followed me out as far as the landing. Cynthia appeared in the hallway and called up to her.
“Chad just called on his cell. He’s on his way home from Asheville and will be back in about an hour. He says he got a great deal on some Burdock root.”
I turned and smiled up at Lacie. But it wasn’t a nice smile.
“You know what they always say…” I said.
Lacie looked daggers at me. “Never trust the cops?”
“Nope,” I said. “Don’t leave town.”
“For how long?”
I wasn’t smiling this time. “I’ll let you know.”
Chapter 23
Downtown St. Germaine was bustling with activity. The ladies of the D.A.R. had blanketed the square with red, white and blue bunting, flags were flying proudly outside all the businesses and Pete had set up loudspeakers outside of the Slab to broadcast Sousa marches throughout the day. There were two registration tables on the steps of the courthouse and they were currently being manned by a couple of veterans sporting their medals and wedge-shaped Garrison caps. It was Election Day.
There was only one polling place for local elections in St. Germaine and that was the courthouse. We didn’t have electronic voting booths, we weren’t computerized, and we certainly weren’t bothered by hanging chads. During state and national elections, we traveled over to Banner Elk to vote, but for local voting, we’d long ago decided that paper ballots were just fine. Of the two thousand or so registered voters, we’d have about twelve hundred show up for any given election. Sixty percent. Pretty good.
There were two items on the ballot—the mayoral election, of course, and the bi-yearly attempt by the city council to raise the property taxes. The second item would fail miserably, as it always did, except for that one year Pete snuck it through by running unopposed and no one bothered to check to see what else was on the ballot and consequently, didn’t show up to vote. The populace wouldn’t make that mistake again. Now, Pete always had an opponent, no matter how unlikely, and The Tattler always printed a copy of the ballot on the front page two days before the election so everyone could see what those sneaky politicians were up to. This year’s ballot had four boxes. In the mayoral race, one box for Cynthia Johnsson, one box for Peter Moss. Choose one. If you happened to choose two, your ballot was thrown away. If there was any doubt about whom you were voting for, your ballot was thrown away.
The second item was a bit more complicated thanks to the verbal gobbledygook, i.e.
Except as provided in this section, the total amount of municipal tax that can be levied during a fiscal year shall not exceed the total amount approved by the city council for the preceding year by more than a percentage determined by adding the percentage increase in the Federal Consumer Price index for North Carolina from the preceding fiscal year. Etcetera, etcetera.
Once one of the voters had figured out that voting “NO” would increase the property taxes, the word soon spread.
The single person in charge of the whole affair was our election commissioner, Billy Hixon. He’d been election commissioner for twelve years since the last commissioner, Walt Dolittle, ran off to Knoxville with the change girl at the laundromat. Billy would supervise the counting of the votes once the polls closed at six o’clock, then ring the St. Barnabas bell and announce the results from the steps around eight.
Nancy, Dave, and I took turns during the day stomping around the courthouse and looking generally Gestapoesque. I made Dave put on his uniform, but I, being the boss, declined the khaki outfit and dark brown jacket, preferring instead to don the dashing Raymond Chandler hat, a gray, alpa
ca overcoat, and a red scarf. Meg commented that I looked a bit more Mafioso than law enforcement, but gave me high marks for sex appeal.
“Have you voted yet?” I asked Meg, who was taking a turn helping at the registration table.
“First thing this morning.”
“If you get some time off for lunch, I’d be happy to take you out to eat at the establishment of your choice.”
“Hmm. How about the library?”
“The library?”
“Rebecca’s offering free sandwiches for voters. Well, not free exactly. It’s a ploy.”
“I’m intrigued. Please go on.”
“You can have a free sandwich, but there’s a donation basket. She’s hoping to make some money for her summer reading program. She gives away books to underprivileged Appalachian kids.”
“So,” I said, pushing my hat back and rubbing a thoughtful hand across my chin, “free sandwiches that aren’t free to pay for a reading program I’m not invited to.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m in. When do you want to head over?”
Meg looked at her watch. “I have another half hour to do. Can you wait?”
She gave me a smile I could feel in my hip pocket.
“Oh, yes. I can wait.”
•••
Supper was Reuben sandwiches for everyone courtesy of Mayor Pete Moss. We were waiting in the Slab Café for the election results. It usually took Billy, Elaine, and two others a couple of hours to count the votes. They divided the ballots amongst themselves and counted them, then switched stacks and counted again. They did this multiple times and when the totals all came up the same, Billy announced the winner. Usually, Pete was so far ahead and the tax measure was so far behind that totaling the votes wasn’t that big a deal, but this year, it promised to be close.
Pete had the Reubens stacked high on a tray sitting on one of the tables. Complementing the sandwiches were bags of potato chips and coleslaw. Plates of pickles and sliced onions completed the feast.
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