“Oh yeah, sorry,” Wyatt said, sheepishly. “Anyway, Clint’s been very withdrawn, and kind of short and snappy with other officers, ever since he’s joined the force. He really hasn’t bonded with any of us much. But, last night after I asked him if something was wrong, he opened up to me some while we swept the liquor store for trace evidence, fingerprints, and all. The sweep was completed with little success, I might add.”
“Go on,” I prompted Wyatt. The detective had piqued my interest and I wanted to hear the whole scoop. If I was tempted to pass on any gossip at the Klip Joint hair salon next week, I wanted it to be as accurate and detailed as possible.
“Officer Travis is going through a rough spell right now and I feel for him,” Wyatt said. “He recently caught his wife of ten years cheating on him with his best friend, and now he’s involved in a bitter divorce, and fighting for custody of his four kids. Apparently his ex-best friend is an attorney, known for his underhanded tactics, and ability to sway judges, usually with payoffs, Clint believes. He’s pretty sure between his cheating ex-wife, and the back-stabbing attorney, he’s going to get a royal screwing.”
“Hmmm. Can I get this attorney’s name and number, just in case?” I said, with a wink at Stone, and a quick kiss on his cheek to assure him I was only teasing.
“Nope!” Stone and Wyatt said in unison.
“Well, it was worth a try,” I said. “Go on with your story, Wyatt.”
“Clint is pretty torn up about the whole situation, naturally, and I think it has a lot to do with his moodiness and inability to concentrate on anything else at the moment. While we surveyed the crime scene, he sat on the floor and talked while I did most of the work. I didn’t mind, of course, and I was happy to get to know Clint a little better. I feel sorry for him losing his wife and best friend at the same time, plus being worried about losing the bulk of his property, and that he might not even be able to spend much time with his kids. At one point, as he spoke about missing his kids, he was actually sobbing.”
“That is a sad story,” I agreed. “I can understand now why he was so insensitive and snippy at the library the other day. Poor guy. Well, I hope it turns out okay for him, even if it doesn’t sound very promising.”
“Yeah, I feel for him too,” Stone said.
Wyatt nodded, and said, “Me too. I just hope it works out all right for him. I think he probably really is a good guy, and a competent police officer.”
“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, Wyatt,” Stone said. “Wendy called this morning and invited us, you, and Veronica, to supper tomorrow night. She and Andy would like to show off the improvements and renovations they’ve made to the ranch house. And Wendy can’t wait to introduce us all to Mork and Mindy. She’s so enthralled with the baby alpacas, you’d think she’d given birth to them herself.”
“It’s good practice for when the time comes she’ll need to care for my grandchildren. Miscarrying the baby she conceived with her first husband was sad, but I hope she’ll be able to have healthy babies in the future.” Both men agreed with my sentiments, and then Stone walked Wyatt out to his car. I poured myself another refill of coffee, and sat down at the table to read the daily Rockdale Gazette.
When Stone rejoined me in the kitchen, he sat down at the table as I refilled his coffee cup. I sat down across from him with my own cup. He thanked me and said, “I didn’t want to mention this while Wyatt was here, but I was able to make an appointment to talk to Elroy Traylor today at two. It will be in his office at city hall.”
“Oh, cool, do you have in mind what you’re going to say to him, and the questions you want to ask him?”
“I’m not going to interrogate him, as you’re probably hoping, Lexie. I’m just going to bring up the issue about this year’s budget for tourism, and see where it goes from there. I will follow my instincts and play it by ear,” he said.
“That’s good. I didn’t really expect you to ‘interrogate’ him, Stone. I just hope you get a chance to ask Traylor a few questions pertaining to Ducky’s death. Things like ‘Where were you last Tuesday night, and do you have anyone who can validate your alibi?’ Or maybe something a little less vague, like, ‘How, exactly, were you involved with the murder of Bertha Duckworthy? Are you, by nature, the quintessence of evil, or what?’ Ask a few questions along that line. Just to kind of feel him out and see how he reacts.”
“Yeah, I certainly wouldn’t want to be vague,” Stone replied, with a chuckle. “I’m not sure I even know what quintessence means, but even if I did, that’s the very last thing I’d ask the city manager. And I’m pretty sure I can already tell you how he’d react. He’d probably throw me out of his office on my ass, and then have security escort me out of the building. Honey, just let me handle it my own way, okay? I promise you I’m not a complete idiot and I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to infer you were an idiot, or didn’t know what you’re doing. I trust you, and I appreciate you doing this for me. I just have a feeling he could be behind her death. He seems awfully determined to build an apartment complex on the library property, and was not happy at all about her standing in his way, according to Ducky, herself. It may have been a combination of retribution, and a way to eliminate the barricade that was blocking his path.”
“Seems a little extreme to me,” Stone said. “I can’t see him resorting to murder over plans for an apartment complex. But, if you insist, I will go talk to him and see what I can deduce from our conversation.”
“Thanks, Stone,” I said, sincerely. “And in the meantime, I’m going to be buying stamps until I get a chance to meet, and speak with the person I felt sure was Quentin’s mysterious caller, Barbara Wells.”
“I’m sure she’ll be extremely delighted to make your acquaintance. I quintessentially feel for her.”
“Nice try using that word in a sentence,” I said, with a smile.
I then asked Stone if Wendy had mentioned wanting me to bring anything to the supper the following evening. He told me she’d specifically told him to let me know I didn’t need to bring anything, because she had everything covered. Obviously, Stone had told my daughter I’d poisoned my boss Saturday night, and the poor fellow was still in the hospital waiting to be released this morning. I guess I wouldn’t want me to add anything to the dinner menu either.
But, I was thrilled with the invitation to go out to the ranch and see what the kids had done with the place, and meet the baby alpacas, otherwise known as my new grand-crias, which for now was the closest thing I had to grandchildren.
I was also anxious to see Wyatt’s girlfriend, Veronica, who we’d first met when her father was killed in the nicest suite at Alexandria Inn, on the inn’s opening night. We now had the bad habit of referring to that suite as the “crypt” but we never discussed the death that had occurred in the suite with our paying guests. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt us, we decided.
I truly had been concerned about what the ghastly murder of Horatio Prescott would do for the reputation of the bed and breakfast, but it hadn’t seem to hurt business any. Nor had the death of the young man, Walter Sneed, who was later killed in the parlor, after we’d hired him to work for us when we held a haunted house at the inn just over a year ago.
The only really good thing that had resulted from the death of Horatio Prescott, was that his daughter, Veronica, had reconnected with her high school admirer, Detective Johnston, and they’d been an item ever since. Although we saw Wyatt on an almost daily basis, we hadn’t had the opportunity to visit with Veronica since the Labor Day picnic we’d held on the back patio, where we ate grilled hamburgers and hotdogs in the gazebo Stone and I had been married in the previous spring.
But, the thing I was the happiest about with the invitation to the kid’s place for supper Wednesday night, was that I didn’t have to tempt fate again by doing any of the cooking myself. I wasn’t ready to climb back up on that horse again quite yet. In fact, with no guests currentl
y lodging at the inn, I’d be talking Stone into going out to eat tonight at the Hallowed Hog restaurant in town. Barbecue sounded nice to me, and I was sure I could convince Stone he’d been craving it, too.
Chapter 12
I was beginning to hope Stone would have better luck on his assignment than I was having on mine. When I finally got up to the counter the first time, after waiting in line twenty minutes, there was an older man who waited on me. I bought a book of stamps, and asked him if Ms. Wells was expected to work that day. He wasn’t certain, but told me she’d be in at twelve if she were on the schedule. It was eleven-fifteen at the time.
I didn’t want to wait in the parking lot for forty-five minutes, so I drove down to the coffee shop I’d stopped at Friday afternoon. I ordered a large espresso to go. I then drove back to the post office and sipped on my coffee while I listened to a golden oldies radio station until a couple minutes after noon.
When I got in line again, there was a pretty, black woman at the counter. The only way I was going to find out if Barbara Wells would be working at any time during the afternoon was to stand in line another twenty minutes, purchase another book of stamps, and ask another clerk if Ms. Wells was scheduled to work during the afternoon. And as feared, it was another waste of time. This clerk didn’t know Barbara’s schedule either, but offered to leave her a message.
Sure, I’ll leave a message. How’s this?
Tell Ms. Wells if she killed Bertha Duckworthy, or has any information on who did, please call me at this number, 555-1022. I’d also be curious to know if she’s been sleeping with Ms. Duckworthy’s husband. I’ll anxiously await her call.
“Maybe it’d be best if I try to catch her at another time,” I said instead.
“Okay, ma’am,” the clerk replied. “If she does come in, it will probably be at two.”
I thanked her, but had no intention of sitting in the parking lot another two hours. Instead, I ran a few errands I needed to take care of anyway. I stopped at Casey’s General Market to fill up with gas, pulled through the drive-thru at Rockdale Savings and Loan to make a deposit, and finally went to Wal-Mart to pick up a few things on my list. I still needed to pick up a bottle of aftershave for Stone. I’d been too busy to go there earlier for just one item. At two o’clock, I drove back to the post office, bought another book of stamps, and was told by the same older gentleman who’d waited on me earlier in the day that Barbara was sorting mail in the back, where customers were not allowed per postal regulations, but she would definitely be working the counter at four, replacing him when he clocked out.
“Have you already used up all the stamps you bought earlier?” The clerk asked.
“Umm, well, yes. I’m working on my Christmas cards today, you see. I wanted to get them done early so I can concentrate on decorating the house and buying gifts during the Christmas rush. I have so many gifts to buy I was afraid I’d run short on time, so I decided today would be a good day to work on all the many cards I need to send, and get that monumental task out of the way. But, unfortunately, I’d miscalculated and needed a few more stamps than I’d realized because I’d forgotten about my cousins on my mother’s side, and I didn’t want to cause a rift in the family, you know. Oh dear—listen to me go on and on when there’s ten people in line behind me.”
Before I began babbling about what kind of Christmas cookies I planned to bake and distribute, providing the stigma of me poisoning people had worn off, I quickly thanked him and rushed out of the post office. I was sure my face was as red as the depiction of Santa Claus on the Christmas stamps the clerk had swapped my “Forever” stamps out for after my rambling story about making out Christmas cards.
I had actually preferred the “Forever” stamps since the price of postage went up regularly, and I’d soon have a year’s worth of stamps at the rate I was purchasing them. I felt a bit guilty about my Christmas card story because I usually sent out about a dozen cards, often two or three days after the actual holiday. Still, I was a little proud of my ability to make up believable excuses at the drop of a hat in situations like this.
Now I had another two hours to fill, and since Stone’s appointment with Elroy Traylor at city hall was scheduled to have just commenced, there was little left to do but swing by Quentin Duckworthy’s house, one more time, and see how he was faring. Just a friendly gesture, on my part, of course. Maybe I could assuage his grief a bit with my words of comfort and concern.
When he answered the door after my second attempt of raising him, he didn’t look as if he needed a great deal of consoling. The TV was tuned to an old war movie, Patton, I think, and was so loud I could understand how he hadn’t heard my rapping on his door the first time I’d knocked.
He had a roll of packing tape in his hand and there were cardboard boxes stacked up against the back wall.
“I’m sorry. Did I catch you at a bad time?” I asked.
“No, I needed a break anyway. It’s nice to see you again, Lexie. Come on in and join me for a soda, cup of coffee, or even a beer, if you’d prefer,” Quentin said.
“Coffee, please, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all. I just brewed a fresh pot. Let’s sit in the kitchen. Was there something I could do for you?” He asked.
“No, I just had some spare time and thought I’d drop in on you and see how you were faring.”
“I’m doing okay, considering the circumstances. I’ve kept my mind off Ducky’s death by boxing up a bunch of her old books. I’m going to use the room she used as a personal library, of sorts, as a room for assembling my woodworking projects. I like to construct little wooden toys and pass them out to kids at Children’s Mercy Hospital every Christmas. I enjoy making them, and they enjoy receiving them, so it’s a win-win situation,” Quentin explained.
“What an incredibly sweet and thoughtful thing to do,” I said, sincerely. And what an unlikely thing for a cold-blooded killer to do in his spare time, I thought. Perhaps I’d misjudged this man entirely.
As we drank coffee, Quentin told me a few humorous antidotes about Ducky that made me realize she was even more eccentric than I’d given her credit for. He didn’t say or do anything I felt was inappropriate for a man who’d just lost his spouse. I couldn’t quite picture this congenial man having an illicit affair with a much younger woman, and I didn’t think it was the time or place to inquire about it.
I enjoyed conversing with him so much, I almost lost track of the time. When I heard his grandfather clock signal it was four o’clock, I stood up and told Quentin I had to get to an appointment. I was surprised when he leaned into me with a heartfelt hug, and said, “Thank you so much for taking the time to come see how I was doing. It’s support from people like you that are helping me handle my grief and get through this horrific ordeal.”
“I greatly enjoyed our conversation too, Quentin, and, like I said, if you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to call. I wrote my name and number on a post-it note and left it on the table. I can be reached at the library too, of course. I’m sure you already have that number memorized.”
“Thank you,” he said, with a great deal of emotion in his voice. I was thankful he didn’t know I’d come to his house hoping to find evidence substantial enough to pin the murder of his wife on him. When I’d walked into his house, I’d wanted to see him arrested, convicted, and crucified. Now I only hoped he’d find happiness again, even if it was with a buxom blonde half his age.
Without taking a second to think it over, I pointed to a small box on the fireplace mantel and, wanting to lighten the mood, said, “Those must be some tiny books to fit in a box that size.”
“That’s my Ducky, not her books,” Quentin said, with a bittersweet laugh. I’d wanted to brighten his spirits, but not in the manner I’d chosen. I should have realized she’d already been cremated. They don’t delay the funeral, or cremation, of the bodies of people who weren’t considered to be the victim of a crime.
For the second time in
two hours, I’d left a building with my face crimson with embarrassment. Humiliating myself was not a hobby I wanted to pursue.
* * *
I finally hit pay dirt at the post office at ten after four. After waiting in line only a couple minutes this time, I walked up to the counter to be waited on by Barbara Wells. I’d had her identity confirmed earlier in the day by the older male clerk who’d had to listen to my recital about my holiday season rituals. I hadn’t wanted to spend an entire day waiting to talk to someone who only resembled the photo I’d seen on Quentin’s phone.
After visiting with Ducky’s husband for nearly two hours, I wasn’t sure I even needed to speak with this woman. I was fairly convinced the association between Quentin and this lovely woman was innocent and aboveboard. But I was here, and I never liked to leave a stone unturned, so after purchasing yet another book of stamps, I said, “You look very familiar to me. Do I know you from somewhere?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” she answered politely.
“Oh, say, I know where I’ve seen you! I was talking to an acquaintance of mine, named Quentin Duckworthy, when his phone rang and your face popped up on his caller identification screen. I knew I’d seen you somewhere,” I said, as I casually put my stamps and change into my fanny pack. “You must be his daughter.”
I said this just hoping to encourage her to explain her actual association to Quentin, so I was taken aback when she nodded and said, “Well, actually that no-good, gold-digging bastard is just my stepfather. Please excuse my French, but I would never claim him as my father, not that my biological father is any prize either.”
Just then, it occurred to me that this gorgeous and statuesque young woman was the offspring of Bertha Duckworthy and Bo Reliford. I knew she had come by her ample breast size naturally, but wondered where, in the combined gene pool of Ducky and Bo, the rest of her assets came from. I was tempted to ask her if her parents had utilized a sperm bank in order to create a beauty like her. Instead, I chose to offer my condolences.
Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky Page 12