What would Mark think of Fawn’s Thanksgiving gift? Did he have a gift for her? Something caught my eye inside the birdhouse. Fawn had soldered a bottom onto the birdhouse. Unusual, but she had mentioned that she and Mark could leave little notes inside for each other. I picked it up and tilted it until a small piece of white paper slid toward the window. I used tweezers to pull the paper out. Tentatively, I opened it and read: SORRY!
Oh, no. Sorry? For what? Had Fawn really planned to kill herself?
Chapter 5
Feeling guilty about reading a note obviously meant for Mark, I tucked it back inside the birdhouse and called Detective Bronsen. When he answered, I rushed to say, “I don’t think I am, but it’s possible I’m wrong. Maybe Fawn did kill herself.” I explained to him about finding the note inside her birdhouse.
“What does the note say?” he asked.
“Only one word—Sorry.” I felt like crying. If I’d only realized how troubled Fawn had been, I might have been able to help her. “I don’t want to believe it means she was sorry she killed herself. What else could it mean?”
“Bella, it doesn’t make sense she’d write that note and then not give the birdhouse to Mark to find after she committed suicide. She would have taken the birdhouse home and placed it where he’d find it. Maybe in the Lamborghini. Or on the kitchen counter.”
I brightened. “You’re right. She expected to come back to class and finish the birdhouse. Maybe the note meant she was apologizing for an argument they’d had. Maybe it was about his career change. She hated that he wanted to go into politics. Does this mean you’re coming around to my thinking, and you agree that Fawn was murdered?”
“I’m considering all angles. Thanks for letting me know about the note.”
“Wait. I hung the school bell and polished the birdhouse. Would it be okay if the other gals from the class and I took it over to Mark? We want to do something for him, and this might help cheer him up.”
“I suggest you wait until after the memorial service,” he said, “when things have calmed down a little.”
“Right. I did wonder if there would be a service.”
“Family only, Bella, considering the circumstances of Fawn’s death.”
Hmmm. “So there’s no doubt in the family’s mind that she killed herself?”
“Apparently not,” he said. “Even after the bomb you dropped on them.”
“You’ll let me know when would be a good time for us to go? And you’ll continue to investigate her death?”
“Yes and yes. Gotta go,” he said, and disconnected the call.
~*~
The next morning after David left for work, I went to my worktable to start foiling the glass pieces I’d already cut for a terrarium. I pinned the pattern on a wooden board large enough to accommodate the thirty-inch height. I started with the parrot that would perch on one of the branches surrounding the terrarium. I chose the bird because I loved the vibrant colors. After I foiled each piece, I set it in place on the pattern.
It wasn’t long before my mind wandered to Fawn and the beautiful silk scarves she had wrapped around her head to cover her hair loss. I wondered who would benefit from her death, and what the motive could be behind her murder. Their house in Charing Cross had to be worth a couple million dollars. The Lamborghini wasn’t cheap either.
I tried to visualize Fawn behind the wheel of the yellow Lamborghini, dressed in the casual clothes Detective Bronsen said she was wearing, and with her head covered with a silk scarf.
Wait!
I set the glass piece I was foiling on the board. He hadn’t mentioned a scarf. Fawn had many; I’d never seen her wear the same one twice. She told us that she never went anywhere without a scarf, even at home. After her hair had grown out, she had plans to burn them all.
At the risk of Detective Bronsen making fun of me, I reached for my cell phone and called him.
“What’s on your mind, Bella?” he asked.
“You said Fawn was wearing casual clothes when she was found, but you didn’t mention a scarf. She always wore one around her head.”
“Not this time. She wore a blond wig. Why is that important?”
“Because, Detective, Fawn never wore a wig. She only got one to please Mark, but she refused to wear it because it itched. She would never end her life wearing a wig. Or kill herself in the Lamborghini. She hated both. And don’t forget the slipper socks. Would she walk into their garage in stocking feet? I wouldn’t, and neither would she. Tell me, did you look at the soles of the socks? Were they clean or dirty?”
“I’ll call you right back,” he said.
He was as good as his word. “How’d you guess? And what does it mean?”
“It means someone put her in that fancy car. She didn’t climb in by herself.” My chest ached with grief. “You better get a warrant for an arrest. Looks like your investigation just turned the corner. Lives may be shattered, but it’s time the truth came out.”
--The End--
Carole W. Price is the author of the Shakespeare in the Vineyard mystery series. Born and raised in Columbus, Ohio, she attended The Ohio State University. She worked for a national laboratory in northern California before turning to writing mysteries. Carole is an active police volunteer for the Livermore Police Department, a member of Mystery Writers of America, and Sisters in Crime. Carole and her husband reside in the San Francisco Bay Area in the middle of wine country. Visit her at www.CarolePriceMysteries.com.
Bobbing For Murder: Aunt Nozzie’s Wonderful Autumn RV Tour
By Lesley A. Diehl
Editor’s Note: A visit from Darcie’s family is always chaotic, and this time the relatives bamboozle Darcie into having a Halloween party. It's a decision that definitely comes back to haunt her.
Chapter 1: October, 1972, On the Road Again
I heard a loud crack and then felt the house shudder. Ahh. My guests had arrived. I knew my aunt and grandmothers were coming to visit because my aunt called last week to let me know they were in the western part of New York State for the apple picking season. However, if you know my relatives—and count yourself fortunate you don’t—then you know there’s probably never any way to be prepared for a visit from them. I guess I thought since it wasn’t Thanksgiving, the holiday I prefer to call “The Day the World Goes Wrong” and the time of the year I usually spend with the family, their arrival and stay would be less eventful than our Thanksgivings. Past turkey days have featured exploding cranberry sauce, a dead body plopped into the mashed potatoes, spam in the shape of my uncle’s head or Thanksgiving dinner in a restaurant where the chef took after me with a cleaver. Why I foolishly thought the significant factor making the family’s presence like a tsunami of devastating and sometimes criminal events was the Thanksgiving holiday, I don’t know. I guess lying to myself was a defense mechanism that I as a psychologist thought should be added to all the others, and if Freud had had the family I did, he would have included it in his list.
Once the house stopped shaking, I decided I should go greet my guests before they did additional damage. When I went out to my driveway, I noticed the gutter running along the garage roof was hanging down onto the sidewalk and the drainpipe was no longer connected to it but teetered on the windshield wiper well on the large motorhome parked mostly in my drive. My Aunt Nozzie had her head out the driver side window.
“Who did your gutters for you, Darcie? The darn thing was protruding out onto the driveway and hit the front of my rig. Probably scratched the finish too,” my aunt said.
I examined the finish on the beige vehicle and noted more rust than finish, but decided not to comment.
I lifted the offending drainpipe off the vehicle and decided to be optimistic. “Hooray. You made it.”
“You act surprised.”
I was more than surprised. I was shocked I hadn’t gotten a call from the state troopers informing me my aunt and grandmothers had wiped out an eighteen-wheeler playing chicken on the thruway. I chose to kee
p the extent of my surprise to myself.
“Well, come on in. I’ve got afternoon tea. Where are Grandma Mama and Grandma Papa?” These were the names everyone called my mother’s mother and my father’s mother respectively.
“They’re in back taking a little snooze. It’s been a long trip. I think I tired them out.”
Or maybe scared them under the beds back there.
Nozzie is a big woman, over six feet tall with flaming red hair. She is my father’s sister and flamboyant in every way. She’s been known to have a heavy size eleven foot on the gas pedal. I try not to ride with her.
As she got out of the driver’s seat, the rig jumped forward, smashing in the corner of my garage.
“Whoa. Forgot to take ‘er out of gear and turn off the key. That door isn’t very sturdy, is it?” She fiddled with the shift lever, shut off the engine, bounced down the steps into my drive and grabbed me in a hug. She was dressed in her signature color, purple—purple shorts, purple blouse, purple scarf around her neck, purple headband holding back those fiery Clairol curls.
I looked behind her expecting to see my grandmothers. No one.
“If you want to see your granddaughter, get out here,” yelled Nozzie.
No sound, no movement.
“Maybe I should just go in and get them,” I said.
“I don’t think you want to do that. It’s a bit crowded in there,” Nozzie said, adjusting her neck scarf.
“Maybe they just need a little encouragement. You must have put quite a scare into them running into the drainpipe…and garage like that.”
“They’re used to it. This rig is so big and the highways so narrow that we’ve clipped a few mailboxes since I bought ‘er. Hey, girls. Get out here.”
I heard a clunking sound coming from inside the motorhome. It sounded like heavy tennis balls rolling around in there. The door opened and a smell like fermenting fruit emanated from within. Something round and red rolled down the steps onto the ground. An apple. It was followed by one of my grandmothers.
“Is it safe to come out?” asked Grandma Papa. She was dressed somewhat like my aunt except the fit of her clothes was odd. Grandma Papa is not quite five feet tall. She’s the queen of recycling. She redoes my Aunt Nozzie’s clothes and shoes to fit her small stature. I wish I could tell you she’s a wiz at this, but she isn’t. She’s quite content to wear Aunt Nozzie’s discarded clothing snugged up with safety pins, duct tape and sometimes a basting stitch, allowing her to downsize to her tiny frame. Her signature item is my aunt’s size eleven shoes, which Grandma Papa makes fit her feet by sewing grosgrain ribbons on the sides and tying them over her instep. To her credit she does coordinate the ribbon color with some item of clothing, sometimes a belt. Today she wore a pair of Aunt Nozzie’s old shorts, so long on her legs that they reached almost to her ankles, making them look like pants. They were a faded purple. Her skinny arms stuck out of a sleeveless blouse, also faded purple, and, you guessed it, Nozzie’s size 11 loafers were tied with faded purple grosgrain ribbons.
“You look, uh, very chic,” I said, hugging her. Seeing Grandma Papa’s dress always demands some kind of comment, but the sight of her usual garb also makes me search for something to say.
Suddenly a load of apples tumbled down the steps of the rig.
“Watch out,” said Grandma Papa. “There’s a lot more to follow.”
We all jumped to one side to let the fruit flow into the driveway and with it, my other grandmother, Grandma Mama atop the avalanche of apples. She seemed to enjoy the ride. She waved a red cap in the air and shouted “Gurble, gurble way.” She came to a halt atop the apple pile.
“So that’s where that apple smell came from. How many bushels do you have in there anyway?” I asked.
“A few. Got most of them when we came through Michigan cuz they told us this wasn’t a great apple year in Upstate New York. But of course that was just a lie to get us to buy more there. We found plenty here. And I understand there’s a fine orchard nearby, so we’ll want to go visit,” said Aunt Nozzie.
“Singer, blunkin, stert,” said Grandma Mama.
Most of the family ignores what Grandma Mama has to say when she breaks into her version of Swedish. When I was a kid, I loved it when she sang songs to me in Swedish, at least I thought they were the real thing. She took a trip to Sweden one year to visit family still residing there and found no one could understand a word she said. She continues to complain about her trip and remains disappointed that they have lost connection to the old country, linguistically speaking, even while living in the old country. She breaks into a Swedish folk song from time to time. I’ve listened closely. The tunes may be the same, but the words change depending upon how much she’s drunk of her favorite Muscatel wine. Not only does she love to sing in what she believes to be her native tongue, but she fancies herself to be somewhat of a gourmet dessert chef, pouring copious amounts of brandy over an Ann Page fruit cake beginning a month before Christmas. To her credit, the cake is moist.
“We plan to can applesauce, a lot of it, and take it back home to sell there,” Aunt Nozzie said.
“That’s what I just said,” said Grandma Mama.
“I thought you’d given up on the cottage industry thing.” I was home for Thanksgiving the year of the cranberry sauce explosion, when Nozzie and the grandmothers were in the sauce making business. The walls of Aunt Nozzie’s kitchen are still slightly pinkish in color despite having been washed down with bleach several times.
“Well, we’re not going to use my kitchen, dear. All those apples will go bad before we get back home. We’re going to cook it in your kitchen. If I remember right, you’ve got a big one with lots of counter space.”
From the smells coming out of the motorhome, it was clear many of the apples were well on their way to hard cider.
I decided to ignore the fruit thing for now. I embraced Grandma Mama. She was considered the tall one in the family, not as tall as Aunt Nozzie, but she was almost five foot seven. I come in at five three, so I’m the baby of the group even though Grandma Papa is a lot shorter, but she has seniority, so is afforded too much respect from family members to be considered baby anything.
All of us with the exception of Grandma Papa ducked under the gutter, an end hanging from one roof support, the other caught on a tree branch.
“That’s a funny way to install a gutter,” commented Grandma Papa.
I heard the kettle begin to sing, so I hurried ahead, certain that in the several steps to my door, this terrible threesome could do little further harm. As usual, I was wrong.
Aunt Nozzie grabbed the attached end of the gutter, ripped it from its roof support and flung it into the yard. “That’s dangerous. Someone could get hurt.”
A gust of wind caught the gutter, sailing it to the far side of the yard and onto my next door neighbor who was taking out his garbage.
“What the heck is happening?” he yelled, as the gutter hit him in the chest and tossed him to the ground. Mr. Smith has lived in the neighborhood longer than I, moving into the small house when his wife died many years ago. He doesn’t hear well, so we did a lot of shouting across the fence line in the backyard, but he was a lovely man who picked bouquets of daffodils in the spring for all the women on the block.
My two grandmothers have eligible bachelor radar built into their DNA. It must have pinged on both their screens because they looked up and caught sight of Mr. Smith, and soon they were racing across the yard to tend to him.
“Are you hurt?” asked Grandma Papa, taking his arm.
“Herb? No, my name is Albert,” Mr. Smith said.
“Come into the house for tea. Our granddaughter is brewing some for us.” Grandma Mama took his other arm.
“Bees? No, I don’t think there are any bees around here stewing over anything,” said Mr. Smith.
“I think he speaks the same Swedish I do.” Grandma Mama giggled. “So then do go wiggle fron?”
My two grandmothers began to righ
t him, but in opposite directions, one toward his house, the other toward mine.
“Help!” called Mr. Smith. “I think aliens have abducted me.”
I was about to rush into his yard when Aunt Nozzie came to his rescue. “These are Darcie’s grandmothers. I think they like you.”
He looked confused for a moment, and then seemed to understand the women trying to abduct him were my relatives. “Oh.”
“Mr. Smith,” I yelled, “Come on over for tea.”
His gaze shifted from one elderly woman to the other, then to the Amazon that is my Aunt Nozzie. “I need a bandage. Maybe some other time.” Jumping over the gutter lying at his feet, he ran to the door of his house, slammed through it and banged it shut. I thought I heard him slide the safety bolt into place.
Aunt Nozzie herded the two grandmothers into my house where we sat down to tea and some maple oat crisps I’d baked.
“Not a real friendly next-door neighbor,” said Grandma Papa.
“Not friendly at all,” agreed my other grandmother, “but maybe he needs the tender touch of an understanding woman.”
“And you think you’re that woman?” asked Grandma Papa, an edge to her voice.
“Girls, let’s not argue. I’m sure he’ll come around. And there are probably other available men around here. Darcie, dear, aren’t there a lot more men at the university where you work than women?”
I thought about her question. Of course the answer was yes, but was I willing to introduce them to my family members? Wasn’t that just asking for trouble?
“I think most of them are considerably younger than you,” I nodded to both my grandmothers, “and most of them are married.”
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 9