by Shannon Hill
“Did he kill Vera?”
I swung my legs up along the back seat. I had to bend my knees. Roger’s not a luxury car kind of guy. “He says no.”
“Why in the name of God did he try to kill you?” asked Aunt Marge, her fury re-directing to an equally tangible and more deserving target.
I almost sighed. “He’s not saying. And he isn’t saying anything about the fire, either.”
“What fire?” asked Aunt Marge.
I grinned. The ride home suddenly looked a lot shorter.
***^***
Dr. Vidur’s hand was bandaged where Boris had bitten him. I noticed because it was by his mouth, holding onto a cinnamon bun. Bobbi was watching him happily. She made fabulous cinnamon buns, but Dr. Vidur appeared not to notice them. He was smiling at Bobbi.
She saw me before he did, and squealed, then hugged me very gingerly. “He’s fine, I saw him,” she said before I could ask. “He’s just in a bad mood. And Raj doesn’t mind about the bite, so it’s okay.”
After Bobbi’s cinnamon buns, anything would seem okay. They have that effect. It’s probably the two pints of heavy cream and the pounds of sugar. They’d sure gotten her from “Dr. Vidur” to “Raj” in a hurry.
“Can I take Boris home?”
“Sure,” said Vidur around another mouthful, his eyes fixed on Bobbi. “He just needs to rest a few days.”
The way Aunt Marge was eyeing us, I had a feeling bed rest was going to be in our futures for more than a few days. I cleared my throat and said, “Not a problem. Boris?”
Doris Hutchins—no relation to Tom that I knew of—came out of the back with a cat carrier wrapped in a blanket. “He’s a little freaked out,” she said, placing the carrier on the counter. “Will that be check or charge?”
I handed over my credit card and flipped off the blanket. “Boris!”
Two huge eyes stared out at me, the gold and green nearly obliterated by black. He was trembling. I popped open the carrier door and he bolted. Doris cried out, but I knew my Boris. He tore along the counter, then spun, tail fluffed, ears flat. For a moment he stared malevolently around the room. Then he tried to twist around to lick his shoulder. No good. They’d put one of those lampshades on him. He sauntered to me, tail whipping, and butted his head against my chin. The plastic lampshade conked me on the nose. I didn’t care. But my dignity had to be spared. Sheriffs get no respect if they coo at their cats in public.
I hefted Boris onto my shoulder, careful of my ribs and his stitches. “Thank you, Dr. Vidur.”
“My pleasure,” he said. He had yet to take his eyes off Bobbi, who was returning the favor. I would have giggled if my ribs would’ve let me.
Boris snuggled up as well as he could with the plastic cone around his head. I walked out to Roger’s car. Now that I had Boris, I had a ridiculous feeling that everything was all right.
I should’ve known it wouldn’t last. When we got out of the car, a man rose out of the rocker on Aunt Marge’s porch. It was my cousin Jack Littlepage. Average height, mousy hair, the Littlepage eyes, and that aura of handsomeness that is really the result of a perfectly nourished and pampered childhood. I had no idea what he wanted, and I saw Aunt Marge and Roger trade a worried glance. It was Aunt Marge who took the lead, walking forward with a bright smile. “Jack, what a pleasure! How are you?”
“Miz Turner,” said Jack politely. “You’re looking well.”
“Thank you. Are you here to see Lil?”
“Yes,” he said, and harrumphed. “Cousin Littlepage.”
“Jack,” I returned, and we did that sort-of hug you do with people you’re not sure you should hug. I was glad. My ribs felt like someone had used me for kickboxing practice. I put Boris on the porch. He was growling to himself. Unhappy about the lampshade, the bald patch around his cuts, and God only knows what else. He hissed at Jack on principle. My cousin didn’t seem to notice.
“I hope you’re not hurt badly,” he said, then smiled awkwardly. I noticed his eyes were bloodshot.
“Not badly,” I said, and gestured to the rocker he’d already been occupying. I took the padded bench nearby. Boris leapt up on my lap, half-purring, half-grumbling. He sighed a little as he settled. “Thanks for the flowers. What brings you by?”
Jack rubbed at his eyes. I expected him to comment on allergies, which is what most people do around that time of year. “Ah, well. I know this is hardly a good time.”
I waited. It’s amazing how well that works.
“Ah, my father’s in the hospital.” He cleared his throat. “It’s, ah, quite bad. Um. He’s not going to, ah…” His eyes teared up.
I forgot my own troubles in a hurry. Last year, Jack’s sister had been murdered, and the smart money was on their mother, who’d been packed off to live in France. Now this. The guy might be a multi-millionaire, but he couldn’t catch a break.
Aunt Marge and Roger scritched past. Her eyes were full of horrified sympathy; Roger’s were just plain sad, like he’d expected no better of the world. Someday, if he lived long enough, he might be able to tell me what it was he did in the military that made him the way he was. Then again, maybe I didn’t want to know.
I stroked Boris, trying to think of something to say. Uncle Littlepage had suffered a “cardiac event” after his daughter’s murder, but I hadn’t heard that he’d continued to have problems. I wanted to squirm. What could I say? I wasn’t on my uncle’s Christmas card list. Cousin Jack’s, yes, but not my uncle’s. I finally settled for, “What can we do?”
Jack brushed at his eyes. He was wearing Brooks Brothers the way most people wear their five-dollar t-shirt from the rummage store, like it was his slop clothes. I wondered what he wore for dressy occasions. “Actually, Cousin Lil, it’s a relief to be able to admit he’s not likely to… Well, that this is…” He shook himself hard enough that even Boris blinked. “No one wants to hear it. Except Mother.” His face went dark and nasty for a moment. “She’s flying back.”
My palms itched. Oh, to have the evidence to put that woman in prison! But all I had was gut feeling and guesswork. “I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it.
“Thanks.” My cousin fidgeted briefly, coughed, and finally met my gaze squarely. “What would you do if Father left you money?”
I shrugged. “Donate it somewhere, probably.” I realized how that sounded, and hastily added, “Nothing personal. It’s just…”
He grinned crookedly. I could see his exhaustion. “In your place I’d probably do the same.”
“He’s not leaving me anything, is he?” I asked in alarm. I rose when Jack did, in case he needed physical support. He had that hunch-shouldered look to him.
My ribs reminded me I wasn’t doing too well myself.
“I don’t know. He made a new will a month or so ago, however, and I know he feels grateful for your efforts toward putting Lisa’s killer in jail.” We traded an identically sour look before Jack concluded wryly, “Knowing Father, however, it might be a souvenir teacup. At any rate. Um. He’s at University of Virginia, if you want to visit.”
I’d just left that hospital, but I nodded. “We’ll head up tomorrow, if you think he’d like the company.”
Jack let his hand rest on my shoulder, then hugged me gingerly. “Thanks. I could use it, even if he couldn’t.”
It was an aw-shucks moment. I hate those.
Jack hesitated on the way to his Lexus. He has a BMW, too, and a Mercedes, but for Crazy he sticks to the Lexus. He seemed about to speak, then changed his mind, and waved instead. I kept my hand raised till his tail lights had vanished. I picked up Boris, who protested louder than my ribs, and sighed into his fur. What a day. Hell, what a week.
And I was no closer to finding out who killed Vera Collier.
7.
I was on my third day of rest and starting to go stir crazy when my cell phone rang. I’d gone outside to sit on the porch with Boris and watch the rain wash the pollen off everything, and and we were both so mellow
I seriously considered not answering. I compromised with myself by checking the caller ID, and had to hit the button. It was Harry Rucker. “Lilith, my sweet giantess!”
I should point out Harry’s shorter than I am. Of course, a lot of people are.
“What now?” I sighed. Aunt Marge had terrified everyone into leaving me be, but I don’t think God Almighty could stop Harry.
“We have a complication,” he chortled.
“Oh God,” I moaned. “What is it?”
“Vera did not die of the mushroom poisoning.”
I went for honesty. “Huh?”
“Insulin. Enough to kill an elephant, well, metaphorically that is.”
That explained the injection. Insulin comes in various forms, which act at different speeds, and an overdose is a pretty sure kill. I’d caught a suicide up in Charlottesville who’d used insulin. A nurse. It’s one of their favorite ways to do it. “She wasn’t diabetic, was she,” I stated.
“No, she was not. I am already inquiring as to the status of the pancreatic health of her offspring and in-laws.”
Sometimes, Harry tires me out. “Are they sure it’s insulin?”
“As certain as they ever are of anything. She was in organ failure from the mushrooms, but the insulin most certainly finished her, although if they’d waited even another few hours the mushrooms would have done it. Fascinating, if you think about it.”
I let Harry ramble. This could play out a lot of ways. One person could’ve gotten impatient for the mushrooms to do the work and hastened the end with the insulin. Or, and this was just as likely, two different people killed Vera using two different methods, and probably in total ignorance of what the other was doing. No matter what, we had obviously made someone nervous enough that they’d burned down the house and its contents. Someone had broken in a window and, from what I’d heard from the State Police, dumped enough gasoline to burn down five houses before tossing in a match. So they were very uneasy about what had been in the house. But what was it? Evidence of mushrooms or of insulin overdose? Or something else entirely?
I was starting to get a tension headache. I said good-bye to Harry, and let my hand lie where Boris could rest his chin upon it. “Well, sweetie,” I said, “we’re gonna have to go back to Paint Hollow.”
Boris emitted a tiny feline sigh, his tail switching. I sighed too. There had to be a better way to go about this than heading back into Collier territory, but dang if I could see it.
***^***
My uncle’s death interrupted my efforts to get Aunt Marge to let me out of her or Roger’s sight for more than ten minutes. Nothing against Tom as a cop, but the Colliers were getting on my last nerve, and I hated to think of them lurking down in their hollow free and clear when murder had been done. Even worse, the fire had left us at loose ends. So when Aunt Marge came out to the garage, where I was working with hand weights as much as my doctor’s restrictions allowed, I was thinking of a million things besides my sick uncle. In fact, I was mostly thinking that I really had to find a place of my own.
“Lil, dear,” said Aunt Marge. She was managing to wear a smocked caftan-like thing and make it look elegant. “I just heard. David Littlepage has passed away.”
I set down the hand weights very carefully. We’d gone up to see him the previous day, and he’d been pale, gray, almost translucent. That complexion was a dead giveaway, if you’ll pardon the expression. “Oh damn,” I said. “How’s Jack?”
Aunt Marge gently shooed me and Boris towards the house. “Bearing up, of course. Poor boy, he’s all alone now. He should be back at the house this evening, if you think we should call.”
“Tomorrow,” I decided. Give Jack a chance to breathe. “That’s soon enough. Where’s the funeral?”
“Here in Crazy, of course.”
I stumbled over my own two feet. “Here?” I squawked. “Where’ll we put them all? There’s not even a hotel!” I managed to diplomatically not add that her cousin’s daughter couldn’t fit everyone into her bed-and-breakfast. The Country Rose is very quaint, and very small. “I can’t believe they’d stay down to Gilfoyle.”
“I’m sure there’ll be arrangements,” she soothed. “Now come drink your fruit juice.”
When Aunt Marge uses that tone of voice, mountains move. I followed her into the house and drank my fruit juice.
***^***
I went back to work a lot earlier than Dr. Hartley or my ribs wanted me to. Plainly put, there weren’t enough cops for traffic control on the day of my uncle’s funeral, and they needed warm bodies to make sure no high-end cars ended up on our low-end side streets. It wasn’t exactly strenuous duty. I parked my car with my bubble lights on and kicked back with a book to make sure nobody drove accidentally on purpose up to the Littlepage house to crash the festivities.
I’d gotten to the part of the Wars of the Roses where Edward of York entered London when someone cleared his throat near my rear bumper. I peeked out the window to see my cousin Jack, in a very good black suit, with his tie loosened. “I didn’t want to send someone,” he said, and thrust a plastic-wrapped plate of nibbles at me. “The caviar is for Boris.”
I thanked him and passed the fish eggs to Boris, who was stretched asleep in the back seat. He woke, sniffing, and devoured the caviar in four chomps, itty-bitty crackers and all. Jack smiled, but he had bags under his eyes you could use for carry-on luggage.
“You’ll be missed,” I pointed out, and gestured up the way. “Thanks for the food.”
“I doubt it.” Jack made a face like a kid being told to eat his vegetables. “Mother is holding court.”
I winced on his behalf. “So is she staying long?”
“Only long enough to contest the will, I guess,” he shrugged. “She will, too. You want to come to the reading?” His smile went all crooked. I’d seen mine do the same thing under similar stress. It was a little weird to realize it was a genetic trait. “Or you can skip it.”
I considered. “Is your mother going to be there?”
“Yes.”
I shuddered purely for effect. “I’ll skip. Like you said, souvenir teacup.”
Jack ruffled his hair. It spoke well of his barber that it lay right back down. “Not quite.” He laughed, but he sounded more worn out than amused. “He left you land.”
Now I laughed, out of pure denial. “No way.”
“Don’t get excited.” Jack gave that crooked smile again. “I’m sure he meant it well, but…” His hands flapped around a bit, catching Boris’s attention. “He left you a plot in the family cemetery.”
If I hadn’t been leaning on the car, I’d probably have ended up on the ground. I couldn’t decide if I was flattered or offended, and by the way Jack watched me, he wasn’t sure what to think, either. I finally said, “You’re kidding.”
“No joke.”
I suddenly thought of something. “I’m betting it’s in the servant section.”
Credit where it’s due, Jack could take a joke and give one back. “If we had one, it would be. As it is, it’s the plot over by Jefferson and Lydia Gilfoyle Littlepage.”
I burst out laughing, until my ribs reminded me to stop. Even so, I was snorting and giggling. I couldn’t help it. Jefferson Littlepage had died before the Civil War, and he’d been the only Littlepage to wed without approval before my mother did it. That he’d been buried in the family plot with his wife was due solely to the fact his children weren’t about to boot Mama to the town cemetery over on Little Mountain. It was typical of my recently deceased uncle that he’d assume I’d be complimented enough that I wouldn’t see the backhanded insult.
I stopped laughing entirely when I remembered that my mother hadn’t been permitted to rest eternally among the Littlepages. Or the Ellers, for that matter.
“No thanks,” I said as kindly as I could, which wasn’t very. “I’ll pass.”
“I figured you would.” He patted my arm twice. It was, for a Littlepage, downright demonstrative. “I better get back
. I’ve got everyone watching Mother to make sure she doesn’t take off with the silver, but she can be sneaky.”
“I’ll search her limo on the way out,” I promised. “You holding up okay?”
Jack stopped, looking peculiarly lost for a minute. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I am. I do wish I had found a wife and had a family before he passed away. It would have eased his mind.”
“You’re a guy,” I said with total lack of tact. Aunt Marge would’ve had a fit. “You can wait.”
“I suppose, but…I think my children will spend time here more than we did.” He sighed so deeply that Boris looked at him with his head tipped to one side. “It’s very peaceful.”
That nearly set me off laughing again. Crazy, peaceful? Only if you weren’t the sheriff.
***^***
A couple of days after the funeral, I was still feeling sore, and I headed to the garden to sulk about being on restricted duty. The flower garden, I mean. Aunt Marge’s vegetable and herb garden is a series of narrow terraces cut into the mountain, and it didn’t encourage lounging. I waved to Roger, who was setting up a system of irrigation pipes to be fed by rainwater gathered in barrels off the roof, and I eased down into the new patio couch. Boris flopped beneath it, glaring at the world. He missed work. So did I.
I heard the doorbell, but I ignored it. Big mistake. A minute later, I heard feet pattering up the flagstone walk around the side of the house. One thing about mountain living. You get some damn fine cardio just walking around.
“Lil? Lil, is it true?”
It was Bobbi, eyes shining, a hand to the stitch in her side. She collapsed onto the chair, panting. “Did he leave you land?”
I sighed. I was not going to get any good sulking done. “Enough to be buried in.”