“It’s not hard. I did it all the time as a kid. We just need a screwdriver—”
“No,” I said. “This has gone far enough. You’re right. This tape is reasonable doubt. At the very least, I’m calling my uncle Jack again and—”
“Good! Call him!” Freddie said, shaking the arm of my chair till I looked over at him. “I mean, I doubt you’ll get him. But leave another message. In the meantime,” he said, holding the tape up to my face. “This here is what we call in the business a lead. A hot one. And we are not just turning it over to Grady.”
“Freddie—”
“Need I remind you that this is still my tape. Legally speaking.”
“Legally speaking! Don’t make me slap you.”
He smiled. “You’re so silly sometimes.” Then he let his face drop. “But seriously now, can you honestly tell me that in your heart you don’t want to go over to The Sharpest Cut right now and find out what the hell this is all about?”
I pinched my lips together. I knew the right thing to do would be to head straight over to the sheriff’s department, but I also knew the second we did that there was no way Grady would let us anywhere near Marg, and I needed to see her face when she found out we knew she was with Mr. Masterson before he got on that ride. After a moment, I nodded and said, “Let’s do it.”
“Cool. Good. Finally,” Freddie said with a nod. “We just have one quick stop to make first.”
“We’re not stopping for donuts, Freddie!”
“God, you’re awful in the mornings. Remind me to buy us an espresso machine for the office.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, Freddie and I walked up to The Sharpest Cut’s glass door. Before Freddie opened it, I turned to him and said, “Okay, I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I think you should take the lead.” Given our recent history, I couldn’t see Marg opening up to me.
“Um … sure. And it’s really cute that you thought this might go any other way.” Freddie swung the door open and we stepped inside, doorbells jangling.
Marg Johnson turned from the woman’s hair she had been rolling a perm curler into, planting her fist on her hip. She spared us one up and down look then said, “We’re closed.”
“Now, Marg—” Freddie began.
“It’s Ms. Johnson to you.”
Freddie held up his hands. “Sorry. Sorry. You’re right. No disrespect intended.”
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Like the twins, Marg had to be in her seventies. I had to hand it to her that she was still able to run her business single-handedly. Then again, maybe retirement would improve her disposition.
“What are you two doing here?” she said, scratching the side of her face with the curler she was still holding. The woman in the chair looked up and frowned. “Visiting hours over at the police station must be starting, or have they already transferred that murderer upstate?”
I took half a step forward, thinking that the bucket of curlers would look far better dumped over Marg’s head, when Freddie put out his hand to hold me back. “Listen, we’re not here to fight.”
“Why are you here?”
“Well,” Freddie said, looping his thumbs around his belt and rocking back and forth on his heels. “We just wanted to get your side of things before we go to the police.”
“Yeah!” I shouted with a point.
Freddie turned his back to Marg and made a zip it gesture with his fingers over his mouth.
“What are you two even going on about?” Marg asked.
“Little birdie has it that Tweety wasn’t the only person to see Mr. Masterson right before he died.” Freddie walked a few steps toward her, looking at his feet. Then he stopped, tilted his head, and peered up at her from under his brow. “You can see where I’m going with this, can’t you, Marg?”
She twisted her lips into a pinch before saying, “Yeah, I saw the old dog before he hooked up with that tramp. What of it?”
“Wow,” Freddie muttered. “Tell us how you really feel.” He gave himself a shake and said, “And what were you two talking about?”
Marg narrowed her eyes on me and took a step toward us. I almost raised my dukes, but caught myself at the last second. “You know, Erica, believe it or not, I was trying to save you from the hurt and embarrassment of the truth about your so-called aunts, but I think it’s time you knew what everybody else in town already knows.”
“Oh yeah,” I said toughly, trying to cover up the sick feeling gathering in my belly. “And what’s that?”
“Everybody knows Tweety, and probably Kit Kat, killed Olivia Masterson’s husband—”
I raised a finger at her in warning.
“—because they already killed her father.”
Chapter Twenty-three
“Whoa,” Freddie said, stumbling back a step and clutching his chest. “I think I literally reeled there for a second.”
I held Marg’s glare. “What did you say?”
“It’s okay,” Freddie said. “I’m fine. Low blood sugar, I think.”
I shot a hand in his direction to get him to be quiet. “You’re full of it, Marg.”
“What exactly are you talking about?” Freddie asked more diplomatically.
“What do you mean what am I talking about? The twins killed Mr. Ramsbottom,” she said, shooting a smile at the customer in the chair. “Ask anyone in this town over fifty. They’ll tell you what’s what.”
“Well, we just may have to do that,” Freddie said looking at me. “And Ramsbottom? Really? That’s a lot of last name.”
“Marg,” I said taking another step forward. “I’m warning you. If you are going around town spreading this—”
“No,” she said, sharply, pointing the curler at me once again. “Those twins of yours have caused enough pain and suffering in that woman’s life. I have gone over to Hemlock Estate every Monday for the past forty years to do Mrs. Masterson’s hair. She is a dear woman. A real lady. She’s done more for this town than anybody else. She never deserved all that they’ve done to her.”
“Ladies,” Freddie said, putting up his hands. “Ladies. We’re getting off topic here. We were talking about Marg”—he pointed in her direction—“being with Mr. Masterson right before he died. Not Mr. Ramsbottom.”
Both of us shot angry looks over to Freddie. He winked at me then said, “Marg, I just have one more question for you.”
She didn’t answer.
“You see, well, there’s one little thing that I’m still confused about, and if the police were to look at this one little thing the wrong way—” He grimaced and shook his head. “—you could be in some trouble.”
The woman getting the perm clutched her apron. I guess the tension was getting to her.
“What are you going on about now?”
Freddie took two quick steps forward. “What exactly did you give Mr. Masterson right before he died?”
The perm lady gasped. Freddie noticed. I think he liked it.
“Give? What? I didn’t—”
“Don’t you lie to me, Marg,” Freddie said harshly. “That little birdie I told you about has really good eyes.”
Marg furrowed her brow. A moment passed, then she said, “You mean the cough drop?”
Freddie said nothing, just continued to stare at her.
“He had a cough. It’s been going around. I had bought some lozenges that morning from the pharmacy. Ask Sully. He was there.”
“Really,” Freddie said with a nod. “How interesting. And you saw him coughing from across the fairgrounds and just hurried right over to offer a drop?”
“No,” she said, loudly. “I hurried right over to give him hell about Tweety. Everybody knew he was taking up with her again. Mick Masterson had everything a man could want—a dream life—and yet he still had to run around. I thought someone should tell him what we were all thinking.”
“You were worked up enough—one might even say angry enough—to give the man a good talking-to,
and yet you still felt it necessary to tend to his cough?” Freddie asked, squinting. “A regular Florence Nightingale you are.”
The customer nodded suspiciously.
Marg whacked her on the shoulder. “Well, there’s no joy in tearing a strip out of someone who’s practically dying right in front of you.”
“Dying?”
Suddenly the room went completely still.
“Well … I don’t know,” Marg said, eyes darting about as though she was trying to remember. “He didn’t look well at the end there.”
Practically dying right in front of her. He was already dying! Which meant whoever gave him the drug, gave it to him before he met up with Tweety!
Freddie and I flashed each other looks.
“We have to go!” Freddie said, hustling over to grab my arm. “Thank you, Marg! You’ve been most helpful!”
He yanked me toward the door as I yelled, “You had better tell that to the police!”
Once outside, I asked, “So where are we going now?”
“I know where we should go next, but whether or not we go there,” Freddie said, shooting a glance in the direction of the police station, “is entirely up to you.”
I didn’t say anything … because something across the street had caught my eye, sending goose bumps running up and down my arms.
“So what’s it going to be, Erica?”
“We’re giving the tapes to Grady.”
“What!” Freddie yelled. “But we have so much to go on—”
I couldn’t help an excited smile from spreading across my face. “We’re giving the tapes to Grady right after we go talk to him,” I said, pointing across the street.
“Who?” Freddie asked, whipping his head around. “Oh … you were messing with me. I love that you were messing with me! It’s a sign! Let’s go.”
* * *
I wasn’t one to believe in signs, but it was kind of funny that when we walked out of The Sharpest Cut, Mr. Sullivan, Sully, was watering his still-blooming baskets of flowers at the front of the pharmacy. At the very least, it felt opportune.
“Okay,” I whispered, leaning toward Freddie. “Not only should we ask him about the cough drops here, but maybe we can get him to tell us what medications Mr. Masterson was on.”
“Agreed.” Freddie skipped ahead, holding up a hand of greeting to Mr. Sullivan.
“Freddie,” the pharmacist said, putting down his watering can to stretch his back. “Nice morning. And is that … who I think it is?” It was clear he couldn’t remember my name. Hey, at least he didn’t call me Boobsie Bloom.
“Erica,” I filled in.
“Of course, Erica. Nice to see you back in town. I’m sorry to hear about Tweety,” Mr. Sullivan said, turning his shaggy-eyebrowed gaze to mine. “I don’t believe for a minute that she had anything to do with that man’s death.”
“Thank you,” I said with a nod. “Actually, Mr. Sullivan, Freddie and I were wondering if we could ask you a few questions.”
Freddie shot me a look.
“We’re hoping to find something that could clear Tweety.”
“Oh … well,” Mr. Sullivan stammered. “Certainly, I guess.” He waved a hand to the front door. “Why don’t we go inside?”
Freddie stepped in front of me before I could follow Mr. Sullivan. “Ever hear of foreplay?” Before I could answer, he added, “I’ve got this, okay? Just stand back. I’m on a roll.”
The pharmacy was actually a lovely old Victorian home. With the library, it was one of the few remaining in Otter Lake. The inside had been renovated, of course, and had all the modern equipment of a pharmacy, but the original woodwork of the main room itself hadn’t been touched, and it was decorated with medical antiques—mainly old dispensary bottles made of colored glass.
I absentmindedly walked over to a cluster of black-and-white pictures hanging on the wall. Maybe Freddie was right … I should be a little more subtle. Slow down a bit. Not look so anxious. The photos were mainly portraits, probably family, but there were a few of the town too. I stopped in front of a gap in the middle of the collection where a frame had been taken down.
“I lent that picture to the fair,” Mr. Sullivan offered. “They have a display of photos near the agricultural building. Mrs. Masterson lent quite a few out too. I should maybe see if she would like them back for the funeral.”
“That’s kind of you.” I hadn’t noticed the display before, so I made a mental note to take a look at it.
“The one I gave them was of the grand opening of the pharmacy. I hope they take good care of it. It’s the only one I have of her from that day.” He smiled then rubbed the front counter with an affectionate look on his face.
Freddie turned his back to Mr. Sullivan, raised his eyebrows, and mouthed what looked to be Bow chicky bow bow.
I shot him a warning look.
“So what did you kids want to ask me about the case?”
Freddie smiled and whispered, “I love that he said that, very Scooby-Doo.” He then whirled around and said, “Well, we were just talking to Marg Johnson, and she was telling us that there’s been a cough going around?”
“Oh yes, she was in for lozenges the other day.”
Freddie nodded. “I don’t suppose you’d know if Mr. Masterson had that same cough?”
Mr. Sullivan chuckled. “Now, Freddie, you know I can’t be sharing personal medical information.”
“Of course. Of course,” Freddie said, nodding. “Besides, rumor has it he died of some sort of overdose?”
Mr. Sullivan pointed a finger at him with a smile. “I don’t put much stock in rumors … but I see what you’re doing here.”
“You do?”
“Leading me in with information you already have, seeing if I’ll let something slip. Very good, my boy. Very good. Everyone’s been saying that you have a knack for the detective business.”
“Do they really?” Freddie said smiling. “Tell me more.”
I slapped him on the back.
“Kidding,” Freddie said, shooting me a look. “But in all seriousness, I know there was some talk about it possibly being an accidental overdose of medication.”
The pharmacist sniffed.
“In fact, Erica tells me her uncle, the lawyer who is representing Tweety, is still really interested in this particular possibility, but I know how thorough you are in giving your patients instructions, so I don’t think that’s likely.”
“Giving instructions is one thing, Freddie. Having customers follow those instructions is another entirely.”
“Oh,” Freddie said, leaning back. “I see. I thought I heard Sheriff Forrester say they were working on the possibility that Mr. Masterson intentionally took too much of his cholesterol medication.”
Mr. Sullivan’s eyes flashed. “Did he really? The cholesterol medication? I told him it was the morphine patches for his arthritis … oh Freddie,” the man said, smiling and tapping the side of his nose. “You got me.”
My eyes flashed to Freddie as a rush ran over my body. Holy crap! He’s done it. He must have known it too, but his face stayed very still.
“I apologize, Mr. Sullivan. Really. I just want to keep this town safe.”
“To be honest, I’m not sure why they aren’t focused more on an accidental overdose,” Mr. Sullivan offered. “That man certainly did have his vices. You tell your uncle that, Erica. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he was fooling around with his medication.”
I nodded. “I will.”
He sighed. “I’d like to help. Sheriff Forrester asked me about Tweety’s medications. I had to tell him that she did have a prescription for morphine a while back. I think it was when she cut off that part of her big toe with the lawn mower.”
The exhilaration I had been feeling just moments ago fizzled away. “What? Tweety cut off part of her big toe?”
Mr. Sullivan looked surprised. “You didn’t know?”
“No,” I said, looking to Freddie. He shrugged.
/> “I felt bad telling him. I knew what he’d think.” He shook his head. “So if I can help in any way, please let me know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sullivan,” Freddie said, reaching out to take his hand. “You have been really helpful.”
“Sully,” the man interjected, giving Freddie’s hand a good shake.
I rolled my eyes slightly at the male bonding. Nobody seemed interested in shaking my hand. And if Happy Erica was weird, Grown-Up Freddie was even weirder … but also kind of awesome.
“I’ll make sure to tip off the medical examiner about your overdose theory too—”
I made a pfft sound.
Freddie shot me a warning look before turning back to Sully. “Just to be thorough.”
“You do that,” Sully replied. “Thank goodness this town has you.”
Freddie tapped two fingers to his forehead, giving the man a little salute before turning and walking away.
I nodded at Mr. Sullivan. “Thank you.”
By the time I caught up to Freddie, he was already halfway across the street.
“Freddie,” I called out. “Slow down.”
I caught up with him just in time to hear, “Oh my God, I can’t believe that worked. I saw it on Sherlock. I need to sit down.”
“You … did it,” I said, shaking my head. I mean part of me was worried that he had thrown Grady under the bus again, but the important thing right now was Tweety, and I couldn’t deny Freddie his moment. “You really, really did it.”
Freddie grunted and punched the air. “I sherlocked the hell out of that man!”
I stopped walking.
Freddie turned. “Too far?”
“Too far.”
* * *
Despite Freddie being pumped beyond belief, we had to put a hold on our sleuthing. He needed to put in an appearance at the fair, and I wanted some time to think about what to do next. To say Marg’s story upset me was putting it mildly. Like Tweety being suspected of one murder wasn’t bad enough—Marg had to tack on another? But on the bright side, at least we knew for sure now that a number of people had access to Mr. Masterson right before he died, and we knew it was most likely morphine that killed him. It was a start. We had also decided to see what my uncle Jack had to say about the tapes before we handed them over to Grady. He would be the best judge of how to handle the situation.
Pumpkin Picking with Murder Page 14