Who Shot the Serif

by Jessa Archer

  My second thought was that she'd bought them for a lover. For Jack or Artie? She'd only been with Jack a few months. It didn't seem that serious yet. Was Earleen the kind to celebrate monthly milestones? It seemed out of character. I couldn't imagine her giving one to Artie, either. I snapped pictures of all of them with my phone. I snapped pictures of everything, including the condition of the room, in case it might be important later.

  A handwritten note to herself on Earleen's desk caught my attention. I snapped a picture of it, too.

  Angel didn't buy a sympathy card for her last three "dead" relatives.

  Before I could ponder that further, my phone rang. Nora was calling. She probably wanted an update. She was such a scaredy-cat. "Yeah?"

  "Get out of there!" she said. "Get out of there now. Phyllis just left the bistro and is headed to Earleen's. I heard her tell Artie she was going to stop by and check on the house for Dana."

  Chapter Nine

  Friday

  I cursed my bad luck. "Is she on foot or driving?" I really wanted a look at Earleen's bedroom and bathroom, and this might be the only chance I'd get.

  "On foot, I think," Nora said.

  "Good," I said. "I may still have time to take a quick look at her bedroom—"

  "Jamie! Don't take any chances. Get out!"

  "I'll rendezvous with you at my place. Meet me there. If I don't make it, head to the jail to bail me out." I hung up before she could answer.

  Fortunately, Phyllis was not a fast walker. She'd put on quite a few pounds since our high school days. These days, she more or less lumbered.

  I raced to Earleen's bedroom, snapping pictures. One thing in particular caught my attention—a framed photo of Jack was on her nightstand. But the glass was cracked. I had no time to ponder how it got that way. I took a picture of it and raced into her bathroom, snapping photos of it as I went. I would have liked to look through her drawers and cupboards, but there was no time. I heard a car door slam shut.

  My heart raced. Nora had been wrong. Phyllis had driven after all. Why should I have been surprised? Phyllis drove everywhere these days.

  Now I faced a dilemma—I could exit out the sliding glass door and down the deck, but I wouldn't be able to lock anything behind me. Which could give away that someone had been in the house. Or I could dash down the stairs to the landing, then down the stairs to the basement and crawl back out the window and replace it. But that meant going past the front door that Phyllis would be coming in.

  I decided in a split second, raced down the steps, slid on the old vinyl flooring around the entryway, and pounded down the steps to the basement. I sprinted to the window. As I was crawling through, I heard a key in the front door. I had never wiggled out of a window so fast. I replaced the window in record speed. Fortunately, although I was a bit rusty, I'd had practice on this window from years ago. As soon as the window was in place, I raced across the lawn and dove into the hedge, getting arborvitae in my hair, dirt on the knees of my jeans, and losing one of my protective booties like Peter Rabbit, just outside the hedge.

  I had no choice. I had to retrieve it. I watched the window. All clear. I reached out and grabbed the bootie. As I darted back into the bushes, I saw Phyllis' shadow as she approached the window. I'd escaped with only seconds to spare. As I crouched in the bushes, heart racing in my throat, I knew how old Peter Rabbit felt. I didn't want to have to go back into Earleen's again.

  I cowered in the bushes until Phyllis left the window. Then I hightailed it home.

  Nora was waiting for me. Her face fell into lines of relief when I walked in the door, looking like I'd gone Earth Day and decided to accessorize with arborvitae.

  "Thank goodness! You made it."

  I nodded. "Barely."

  She pulled a fragrant piece of shrubbery from my hair. "Had a good time with a hedge, did you?"

  I scratched, feeling bugs and spiders crawling all over me. "I think I'm allergic. I need a shower."

  "The shower can wait. Did anybody see you?" Nora fidgeted like she did when she was nervous.

  "Not that I know of," I said. "Hey, lady, you were wrong about Phyllis walking."

  "I know. Sorry. What was I thinking? Phyllis hardly ever walks anywhere anymore." Nora made sad, apologetic puppy-dog eyes at me. "By the time I realized, it was too late to text or call. I was afraid a ring or a ping would give you away."

  "With lookouts like you, who needs enemies?" I rolled my eyes playfully. "I made it out with a mere window's breadth to spare. My breaking and entering skills are rusty. If I'm going to keep this up, I'm going to have to start practicing."

  Nora shuddered exaggeratedly. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that." She took my arm and led me to the sofa. "On to more important stuff—what did you find?"

  I plopped down. "Nothing concrete. No smoking gun." I pulled my phone out of my pocket. "I took pictures of everything. How could Ridge have missed this?" I brought up my photos and handed the phone to Nora, waiting for her reaction to the picture of Rosemary's threatening note.

  "Leave luck alone or I'll bill you?" Nora looked puzzled. "What does this even mean? Did Earleen have a gambling problem? How was she relying on luck? And who's threatening to bill her?"

  "No, no, no," I said. "What are you talking about?"

  "The note you showed me."

  "The note I showed you clearly says, Leave Jack alone or I'll kill you."

  Nora shook her head. "Not from where I'm sitting." She pointed. "That L and that L look exactly the same. Though I'm confused as to why Luck is capitalized."

  "Because it's Jack, not Luck."

  "But that a looks like a U."

  "That's an A that's not fully closed." I pointed. "And that's a K."

  "If you say so." Nora didn't look convinced. "Bad typeface choice, though, in my opinion. Rosemary?"

  "Who else?" I said reluctantly. "I recognize her style, if you can call it that."

  "You mean her hot mess of lettering. It looks like she's trying out more than one alphabet style.”

  I shook my head. "It's all supposed to be the same style. Believe me."

  Nora pursed her lips. "Wow. You told me Rosemary isn't good at lettering, but I had no idea how bad she is. At first glance, this looks like a lettering practice sheet. Like Earleen was just sitting at her desk, doodling and messing around with lettering."

  "Of course," I said, as I suddenly saw the note through Nora's eyes. This was a head-smack moment. "Especially given that it was next to a pile of blank greeting cards. You're brilliant."

  "Or brilliantly confused," Nora said. "I'll take it either way. And as for Earleen, I can't imagine she was too scared about being the prospect of being billed." Nora shrugged. "Poor Rosemary. We all do crazy things when we're hurt or angry. I'm sure she didn't mean it."

  "Maybe not. But given the circumstances…"

  "Yeah. It doesn't look good for her."

  "Scroll on. There's more to see," I said.

  Nora swiped to the next picture. "A bunch of raunchy anniversary cards?" She turned to me. "Should I blush?"

  "Suit yourself. But they're all blank inside. No one's written in them. Rosemary's note was with them."

  "Disappointing. No naughty poetry to mock?" Nora frowned. "Was this Earleen's plan for revitalizing Culp's Stationery? The naughty card business?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know. If it was, it wasn't too smart. There are a lot of chain stores around the sound where you can buy this kind of thing already. In complete anonymity. Why would anyone go to Culp's and have Earleen peering over their shoulder? Was Earleen that bad at business?"

  "No comment there, but she did have bad taste," Nora said.

  "Can't argue with you there," I said. "I don't think anyone can argue those cards are in good taste."

  "Do you think they were for someone special? Artie or Jack, maybe?"

  "Could be, I suppose. She had a receipt for lingerie on her desk, too." I reached across and swiped the phone to the picture of it.
<
br />   Nora grimaced. Neither of us wanted to think about Earleen in lingerie with either Jack or Artie. "But which one?"

  "Both?" I said. "Earleen always liked to have more than one guy on the string. She had a big ego. I think that's why she liked Rut and Ridge so much—two identical twins, both hot."

  "We all wanted Rut and Ridge," Nora said. "It was dirty the way she stole Jack away from Rosemary." Nora sighed. "Poor Rosemary."

  "All's fair in love and war. That's the saying, anyway." I felt bad for Rosemary too, but if it wasn't meant to be… "I don't think Jack was ready for a kid, cute as Rosemary's boy is."

  "Maybe. But I think we only have half the story. Rosemary is way too upset for their relationship to have been casual. They'd been dating nearly a year. What did Earleen do to pry him away?"

  "Earleen may have been upset with Jack, too. Here." I scrolled through to the cracked glass over the picture of Jack. "That picture was on her nightstand. I recognize the frame as one from the line Earleen sold at the store. Why would she keep a picture of Jack behind broken glass? Especially when it would have been so easy for her to replace? And how did the glass get broken? Did the frame fall off her nightstand and crack? She has hardwood floors in her bedroom, so it's a possibility. Or did she get mad at Jack for some reason and throw the frame against the wall or something?"

  "Good questions. Earleen has been known to throw pictures before when she feels spurned," Nora said.

  "Or has been broken up with," I added.

  We were both thinking of high school when she threw her prom picture at her date in a pique.

  "We need to dig deeper," I said. "See if Earleen and Jack's relationship had any cracks in it and find out if Jack has an alibi for the morning of Earleen's murder."

  "Agreed." Nora swiped to the next photo on my phone. "What's this mean? Angel didn't buy sympathy cards for her last few dead aunt's families?"

  "You've got me," I said. "Earleen cataloguing the demise of her business? Sales are down because Angel hasn't been buying her sympathy cards for her gigantic family at Culp's? Maybe Angel's just gone digital."

  "Digital sympathy cards seem a bit cold."

  I agreed. "That's not like Angel. She's very thoughtful." I paused. "Come to think of it, I don't remember her making any of her huge ravioli casseroles for the latest funerals, either."

  "Earleen was known for keeping track of people's card-buying habits," Nora said. "It gave her leverage over people. She was a horrible gossip and manipulator. What if she knew something? Angel has been going into the city more and more often. It's curious even to me. In the hands of an interminably nosy person like Earleen?"

  "Yeah. Earleen has been known to blackmail people. I'm convinced that's how she kept me from getting a lease at Lighthouse Gardens. If Angel has been going into the city for something other than family funerals and Earleen knew why and it was something Angel wanted kept quiet…"

  Nora grimaced. "Don't go there."

  "I have no choice. I've been thinking this over—the sequence of events. First, the quote taped to my door at Flourish. Then Earleen's body on my lawn, shot with a 9mm and holding another one of my quotes. Then my 9mm is discovered missing. The three aren't necessarily related, but they're awfully coincidental.

  "I have a bad gut feeling about them. It sure seems like someone is setting me up and trying to frame me for Earleen's murder. What's puzzling me is why my gun hasn't turned up. I have to find it, or the real murderer, before it does. I'm already under enough suspicion as it is. If it's found, presumably wiped clean, because this killer is obviously smart, then I'm toast."

  Nora agreed.

  "And all this leads me to a disturbing train of thought—I've never been careless with my gun. There are only a few people who knew where I kept it at the store—Rosemary, Jack, Angel, and Artie. It's not, therefore, improbable he told Phyllis or Earleen. Or both. Or Phyllis blabbed to Earleen. And if Earleen knew, it's not a stretch to think she might have told Dana. You, Opal, and Ridge, of course, but you don't count."

  "And each of them has a motive," Nora said.

  "Yeah, some weaker than others."

  "I really hate to even imagine Rosemary or Angel as murderers."

  "I do too," I said. "But I can't rule anyone out. Not until we can establish whether they have an alibi. The problem is, with the murder happening early in the morning—who really has an alibi? They'll all claim they were home in bed, like I was. Or getting ready for work. Jack lives alone. Rosemary has a small son who has his own bedroom. Phyllis and Artie will vouch for each other. Angel's usually out early. Someone may have seen her. But even still, we don't have a precise time of death."

  "Sounds like we have our work cut out for us and some investigating to do." Nora returned her attention to the photos on my phone. "Let's see what else you have here."

  "Not much," I said, feeling dejected. "Some pictures of Earleen's bedroom and bathroom. Nothing to write House Beautiful about."

  Nora's brow furrowed. "What's this?" She expanded the picture. "See." She pointed to a bottle of perfume on Earleen's bathroom counter. It was next to her electric toothbrush and a dispenser of liquid soap. "Oh, that's terrible. That's cheap stuff. That perfume came out in the eighties. You can buy it at a drugstore now."

  I took a look. "Yeah. Sue told me Dana bought it for Earleen as a thank-you gift for putting her and the boys up. I didn't think Earleen would actually wear it. Looks like she must have liked it."

  As much as I hated to admit it, the one thing Earleen did have good taste in was perfume. She always smelled good.

  Nora shook her head. "On the contrary—she was trying to ruin it, if it's even possible to ruin that scent. It's already pretty bad." She shuddered. "You don't keep perfume in the bathroom and certainly don't put it in direct light like that. The sun from the bathroom window will shine right on it. Heat and moisture ruin perfume and mess with the notes, making it smell off. No, you treat perfume, especially perfume you love, like fine champagne—you store it in a cool, dark place. Some people even refrigerate it. Everyone in the makeup industry knows that. Earleen was a perfume aficionado. She knew it, too. I had a discussion with her about perfume once." Nora gave me a sharp look. "I've warned you to baby your perfume, too. But do you listen?"

  "But it's so convenient to keep it where it's easy to grab after a shower."

  Nora arched a brow. "Really, Jamie."

  I shrugged. "Earleen was being passive-aggressive with that perfume. Good for her. I would have given her more points if she'd dowsed her cheapskate cousin with it, though."

  "What do we do now?" Nora handed my phone back to me.

  "Interview suspects and hope for the best," I said with more confidence than I felt.

  Chapter Ten

  Saturday

  Spring Saturdays in Cedar Valley are always busy. The Cedar Valley Bakery was packed. The line spilled out the door. Perk Me Up was crowded as well.

  At Flourish, foot traffic was high. But sales were down. Way down. The news of Earleen's murder—which had been in the Seattle metro area news as "Woman found shot to death in neighborhood yard"—was beginning to permeate the greater world. I suspected the gossip that I was the main suspect was being spread in the bakery. Probably by Phyllis, who almost always stopped by for a Saturday morning scramble.

  It wasn't my imagination that I was suddenly an object of curiosity. I heard the whispers behind hands and my back. Saw the looks and noticed people looking away when I caught their eye. Despite getting good customer traffic, it wasn't converting to my usual number of sales. This was bad. Very bad. I did my best to remain upbeat and friendly.

  By late afternoon, the lines outside the bakery were gone and Perk Me Up and Flourish were quiet. I went next door for my afternoon coffee. Angel gave me a friendly wave, like usual. Did she look like a murderer? Like someone who was trying to frame me? She certainly didn't act like it.

  "Your usual?" Angel asked.

  I nodded and headed for my us
ual table, the table nearest Flourish. From there I could keep an eye on the store in case any customers came in. I noticed, rather uncomfortably, that Angel could do the same. How hard would it have been for her to swoop in and snatch my gun when I had just stepped out for a minute? I often asked her to keep an eye on the store for me.

  We fell into easy conversation. I relaxed, wondering if there was a way to ask Angel if she'd seen anyone around my gun drawer without giving away that it was missing.

  "How was your aunt's funeral?" I asked. "I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to ask sooner."

  "Large," Angel said. "And long. Full mass, of course."

  I nodded. I didn't know anything about masses. "Which aunt was it?"

  "Cookie, poor dear." Angel sighed. "It's sad, of course. But she was ninety-four."

  I was pretty sure Cookie had died before. At age eighty-nine. "Didn't you go to Cookie's funeral last month?"

  "Did I say Cookie?" Angel tried to look embarrassed. She wasn't a very good actress. She looked nervous. She was hiding something. I was sure of it. "Where's my head? I meant Rosina. I must be tired."

  I didn't call her on it, but I was sure she told me Rosina had died last year. She was getting tripped up in her own lies. "We're all tired."

  She gave me a sympathetic look. "Yes. How are you holding up?"

  "I'd be better if Ridge caught Earleen's killer. The suspicion is killing me."

  She nodded. "I'm sorry, Jamie. It must be rough."

  I took a deep breath. "Yeah. Say, you're usually out early. You didn't happen to see Earleen on her jog that morning? Or anyone suspicious?"

  "Ridge asked me the same questions," Angel said. "I was up and out of the house at my usual time. But I didn't see anything unusual—a few tourists."

  "What kind of tourists?"

  She gave me a look like I was grasping at straws. "An old woman walking toward the trail, a few young tourists on bikes, that sort of thing."