Berried Alive

by Chelsea Thomas

  “When you call him stupid and hideous, it doesn’t exactly make you sound innocent,” Miss May said. “However, I still don’t suspect you. So can I have my flowers or not?”

  “You should be ashamed, May,” Arthur said. “Suspecting Petunia for this murder just like you suspected her of the last one? Just for having the gumption to oppose that money pig in public? It’s preposterous. Ridiculous! Downright insulting.”

  Petunia handed Arthur a glass of water. “Here. Calm down. Have some water. Don’t mind May and Chelsea. They’re getting a little arrogant with all this sleuthing.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Arthur said. “I appreciate you catching those killers. Both of you. Hi Chelsea, by the way.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  “I’m just saying, when you start accusing townspeople, the people who make this little village great? That’s when it starts to be too much. You’ve known Petunia how long? Thirty years? She’s no killer.”

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned,” Miss May said. “It’s that anyone is capable of murder. Even those you least suspect.”

  “Listen to her with these grandiose quotations,” Petunia said. “You know what, May. I resent that you’re making me do this. But I don’t need you snooping around my clubhouse, ruining anymore poker games. So here. I’ll show you my alibi.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Petunia,” Miss May said. “We really don’t think you did it.”

  “We don’t,” I insisted.

  “No offense, Chelsea,” Petunia said. “But hush your face.”

  Petunia pulled out her phone and opened up her photo album. “Here. See these pictures? I was at my granddaughter’s birthday party the night Rosenberg died. We were playing CLUE. You know, the board game? Perhaps you should spend some more time playing that game. Could help you sharpen your detective skills. It was Mr. Green, in the library, with a candlestick. In case you were wondering.”

  “Ugh, it’s always Mr. Green,” I said. “Has anybody else noticed that? That guy is guilty every time!”

  Petunia glared at me.

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Mr. Green is probably a gentleman. I don’t suspect him for no reason. It’s just, people named after colors kind of freak me out. Mustard? That’s a color and a condiment! It gives me the chills.”

  “Are you done?” Petunia asked.

  I nodded. “Yes. Sorry.”

  “Good.” Petunia gestured for me to come closer. “Come take a look at this. OK?”

  Petunia poked at her phone a couple times. “You poke here and you poke there. You can see where I was, geographically. And you can also see what time they took the photo. I took a class on computers last time you accused me, that way I could make sure I knew how to prove my innocence whenever necessary. Can’t believe it’s coming in handy so soon.”

  “We’re not accusing you!” Miss May slammed her fist on the table. Petunia took a step back.

  Miss May took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Petunia. I honestly just wanted the flowers. That’s it. I’m sorry I accused you last time. Whenever I question someone and turn out to be wrong... it haunts me. I regret that I made you feel like a suspect. And I should have apologized sooner.”

  A long silence hung in the air like particles of dust suspended in a beam of light. Finally, Petunia spoke, “You like lilies, right?”

  Miss May cleared her throat and regained her composure. “Yes. They’re my favorite.”

  Petunia went into the back room, and returned a few seconds later holding the biggest bouquet I had ever seen. There were so many flowers that Petunia was no longer visible behind them. And lilies were the most prominent ones. She handed the bouquet to Miss May.

  “Extra lilies. Just for you.”

  Miss May accepted the bouquet. “Thanks. I hope your luck turns around at the tables.”

  “Poker is not a game of luck,” Petunia said. “It’s a game of skill. And I’ll turn it around. Just as soon as these developers pick up and move to the next poor, unsuspecting town.”

  “Well said,” Arthur replied.

  Miss May looked from Arthur, then to Petunia, with a small smile. “You know, according to the police, Hank Rosenberg died of natural causes.”

  Petunia let out a small laugh. “We both know that’s not true, May. Now go find the killer.”

  12

  Castle Capers

  AS WE APPROACHED ROSENBERG’S home, the imposing stone castle in the forest, I felt a warm unease in my stomach. The house was eerie in its enormity. And not a single light shone from inside.

  That time, we knew Rosenberg wasn’t going to be in. But it was almost 6 PM, so both Miss May and I thought his wife might be around.

  Miss May handed me the bouquet and grabbed the big, brass knocker on the front door.

  Clank. Clank. Clank.

  No answer.

  Clank. Clank. Clank.

  Again, no answer.

  “Here to offer your condolences?”

  Miss May and I both yelped and spun around, flattening our backs against the door.

  “I hear that’s what you do when you question suspects,” the disembodied voice continued. “Like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  We followed the sound of the voice and saw a middle-aged woman sitting on a bench about ten feet away, nestled in the golden twilight of the front yard.

  She was tall, broad, and striking. Wearing all black with dramatic, smoky eyes. Her hair was pulled back in a simple, impeccable ponytail. And she had high cheek bones and pouty lips. But not like from real pouting. Like, from a plastic surgeon.

  “Susan. We didn’t see you there,” Miss May said. “Chelsea. This is Susan Rosenberg, Hank’s wife. Susan, this is Chelsea.”

  I nodded. “I’m sorry about your husband.”

  Susan stood from the bench and approached with her hands tucked behind her back. “I’ve been expecting the two of you. You often suspect the spouse in cases like these, no?”

  There was a hint of a smirk on Susan’s face, which chilled me.

  “...uh.” Miss May held out the bouquet. “We wanted to bring you these flowers. To say in person how sorry we are about what happened.”

  Susan turned back to the bench and ran a hand along the edge. “Hank and I bought this bench together. So we could enjoy nature. Drink fine wine. Watch the sunset.”

  “The sun sets in the opposite direction.” I looked down as soon as I spoke. Why did I always have to correct people? Very annoying habit.

  “It’s a figure of speech, Chelsea.” Susan’s voice was sharp. “The point is: I wanted to enjoy our time together. And we did. Several times we sat on this bench. I cherish those moments now.” Susan’s eyes hardened. “Now that someone has killed Hank.”

  Miss May held up a finger. “According to the police—”

  “Natural causes,” Susan scoffed. “Stupid Sunshine Flanagan. That’s ridiculous. Did you hear? Official cause of death, according to the police, was heart attack. Hank ran 6 miles every morning. His doctors said his heart was healthier than a thoroughbred racehorse. He did not have a heart attack.”

  Miss May nodded. She held out the flowers once more. “This bouquet has extra lilies. If you like them.”

  Susan offered Miss May a tight smile and accepted the flowers. “Lilies are beautiful. Thank you. But flowers are not what I want from you.”

  Miss May’s eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

  Susan shook her head. “I want you to find out who did this to my husband.”

  Miss May nodded. “We’re going to do our best.”

  Susan crossed her arms. “Unbelievable. Can you imagine? One of these low-bred townie ingrates killed my thoroughbred.”

  Harsh, I thought. But I managed to keep silent.

  “Hank started his career restoring old buildings, not demolishing them,” Susan said. “Did you know that?”

  Miss May and I shook our heads.

  “When did he move on to megastores?” I asked.
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  Susan narrowed her eyes. “Hank doesn’t just build megastores, silly. He restores entire towns. Restored them. Pine Grove is just one in a long line. My husband breathed new life into this entire region. Changed the socioeconomic makeup of the area, for the better. Did you know there’s a term for that? It’s called the Rosenberg Effect. A professor at Columbia coined the term a few years back. And it’s real. People think big box stores ruin small towns. But they bring so much business, so many jobs. They raise so much money in taxes. The schools get better, the roads get better... Hence, the Rosenberg Effect.”

  I winced. Like most residents in Pine Grove, I was against massive stores like the ones Hank Rosenberg built. Maybe Susan was right about the jobs and the influx of cash, but so what? Sometimes character was more important than profit. But again, I cautioned myself not to say anything. Be still, my tongue.

  Miss May, on the other hand, didn’t shy away from the conflict.

  “You know most people hate those giant stores,” she said.

  “I’m well aware,” Susan said. “Hence, the townie ingrates. The murder. Your investigation.”

  I looked over at Miss May. Susan was a staunch supporter of Rosenberg’s work. She seemed bitter about his death. Not exactly signs that pointed to Susan’s guilt. Miss May must have felt the same way, because she began to treat Susan more like a source of information, and less like a suspect.

  “We want to solve the mystery of your husband’s death,” Miss May said. “But we need more information. Do you know anything that might be able to help?”

  Susan smiled. “Oh yes. I know just where I’d start my investigation if I were you. Not everyone in this town is who they say they are. Some people have a secret past...”

  Miss May took a step toward Susan. “Who are you referencing?”

  Susan walked up the steps toward the front door. “Follow me and I’ll show you.”

  AS SUSAN LED US THROUGH the house, I took a careful look around.

  We entered into a small sitting room with floral wallpaper. A lush carpet gave way under my feet like fresh snow. Emily Dickinson novels lined a bookshelf on a far wall. In the corner, an easel propped up a half-finished painting of a hummingbird. And a daybed rested against the wall, with a worn copy of Shakespeare’s Hamlet splayed out upon a pillow. To build or not to build, that is the question...

  “I love this room,” I said. “So delicate and thoughtful. I take it Hank didn’t spend much time in here?”

  Susan didn’t break her stride as she rounded the corner into a hallway. “No. That’s my room. For my painting and my reading. I didn’t allow Hank in there.”

  Miss May and I exchanged a look as we followed Susan down the hall. What did that mean?

  “Many couples live like that,” Susan said. “Separate rooms for separate hobbies. Honestly, it was the secret to our marriage. Plenty of time apart.”

  We emerged at the end of the hallway into a room that I assumed was meant to be a formal dining room. But in the place of a dining table was a large billiards table. Images of old mobsters and classic movie posters decorated the lush, dark walls.

  “Let me guess... Hank likes, er liked, to shoot pool?”

  “He loved it. Tried to teach me, once. But I was a worse student of billiards then he was of oil painting. I put a hole in the wall with my cue stick during my first lesson and never played again.”

  Separate rooms for separate lives, I thought. Isn’t there something off about that?

  I looked over at Miss May. She craned her neck to get a look in another room, but Susan reached out and closed the door.

  “Nothing in there. No need to snoop.”

  “Sorry,” Miss May said. “I’ve got an energetic bladder. Thought that might be a powder room.”

  “I’ll show you to the bathroom after,” Susan said. “Come. Follow me.”

  With that, Susan walked toward a large oak door at the far end of an immaculate and spacious kitchen.

  The door whined as Susan swung it open, then I heard her sensible heels thunk-thunk down a staircase.

  Miss May and I paused at the top of the steps.

  I whispered, “Are we really going to follow her down there?”

  Miss May shrugged. “I think we’ve come too far to stay up here.”

  I looked down the steps. The walls of the staircase were stone, like the outside of the house. And whatever was down there had a misty, musty smell.

  Susan reached the bottom of the staircase and turned back to us. “Come along. The basement won’t bite. Well, not as long as you play nice.”

  Miss May descended the staircase. I followed, feeling like a frog was jumping up and down in my chest. The stairs spiraled downward in tight curves, and the light from the upstairs dimmed with each step I took.

  Any second, a vampire could jump out and attack us, I thought. Or any other kind of basement horror. Nothing good ever lived in a basement. What if it was some sort of reptilian swamp monster with—

  Whoa!

  I missed the next step and stumbled down the final three to the bottom of the stairs. My arm shot out toward the wall to steady me, and I recoiled at the coldness of the stone. My body tingled with goosebumps.

  Did it just get ten degrees colder, or am I crazy?

  I gathered myself and looked around the basement.

  And I couldn’t believe what I saw.

  13

  Trophy Wife

  ROSENBERG’S BASEMENT was not the den of horrors I had expected.

  In fact, it was the most pristine basement I had ever seen. Presumably expensive bottles of red wine lined the far wall. A 60-inch TV hung opposite a burgundy leather couch. And an enormous trophy case occupied the back wall.

  I had envisioned the basement filled with human bones or ancient torture equipment. Somehow this elegant trophy room creeped me out even more.

  The whole place had an antiseptic feel. Like if a dentist’s office had a big screen TV. And expensive furniture.

  “Wow. This is a wonderful man cave,” I said.

  Susan tittered. “Man cave? This is a man sanctuary. To Hank, it was a holy place. Even I find solace here. The enormity of the television humbles me.”

  I shot a look at Miss May. Was it me or did Susan Rosenberg sounds like a bonafide maniac?

  I sat on the couch and let out a moan of comfort. That was the most comfortable couch I had ever experienced. Despite the circumstances, I wanted to curl up on it and take a nap.

  “I didn’t bring you down here just so you could moan on my dead husband’s exquisite couch,” Susan said.

  “Right,” I said, standing up. “Sorry. The couch called my name. That is an incredible piece of furniture. I would...marry that couch. And we would have a rich and vibrant relationship. Just me and the couch against the world. Me and Couchy.”

  “That’s good, Chelsea,” Miss May said. “You can stop talking.”

  I nodded. My nervous chatter was making everyone uncomfortable, including me.

  Susan gestured to the trophy case along the back wall. “Look here and tell me what you see.”

  I saw five long shelves stacked with golden trophies. There were also a few plaques and framed newspaper clippings among the awards. The centerpiece was a big picture of Hank, holding one of the trophies above his head.

  “A challenge,” Miss May said. “I like it. What do you think, Chelsea? See any clues in the trophy case?”

  Miss May stood back to get a good overview. I wanted to get a closer look, so I approached the largest trophy and read the inscription.

  “Hank Rosenberg, State Champion, Karate. 1980.”

  I turned back to Susan and Miss May. “Hank was a karate champion?”

  Susan nodded. ”Hank was a karate master. The best this area has ever seen.”

  I looked back at Susan. The best? I’d always assumed...

  Miss May didn’t beat around the tush. Or the bush. She got straight to it. “So you’re trying to tell us Master Skinner wa
s involved in the murder.”

  “Keep looking,” Susan said. “I’m also providing you his motive.”

  “Master Skinner’s dojo is in the Rosenberg Building,” I said. “The demolition of his livelihood wasn’t his motive?”

  Susan shook her head. “Oh no. The motive was very much karate-related, young lady. I’m telling you: behind Master Skinner’s zen exterior, there lurks the soul of a sour fruit.”

  Miss May looked skeptical. She narrowed her eyes and turned back to the trophy case. As did I.

  I inspected one trophy after another. Each had been inscribed with Hank’s name. And the years spanned from the 1970’s into the 1980’s.

  “All this is telling me is that Hank was great at karate,” I said to Miss May. “That’s surprising, sure. But so what?”

  “I’m not sure,” Miss May said. “We need to find the connection.”

  “My husband was born and raised in Pine Grove,” Susan volunteered. “His family lived here for generations. Some say you can feel their spirits in the walls.”

  I forced a smile but felt terrified inside. OK, creepy lady. Keep your distance.

  I turned to Miss May. “Maybe Master Skinner and Rosenberg were high school rivals on the karate circuit,” I said. “Perhaps Master Skinner was evening an old score? Could that be the theory?”

  Miss May shook her head. “Master Skinner is at least five or ten years younger than Rosenberg. They weren’t at PGHS at the same time. They wouldn’t have been rivals.”

  “Interesting observation,” Susan said. “But they both may have pursued karate competitively beyond high school.”

  I sighed. I felt like if Susan had information that could help our investigation, she should spit it out already. I was about to give Susan more than just a piece of my mind when Miss May perked up.

  “Wait!” Miss May turned to Susan. “There was that big regional karate tournament! In the mid-eighties, it was all anyone talked about for a few weeks. I remember, because two of the contestants were from Pine Grove.”

  Susan nodded.

  Miss May continued. “Master Skinner was one of the finalists.”