Tom was drawn to a table filled with tools, while I admired the washstand. We were both examining our favorite items when Ed appeared about two minutes later.
“Well, hey there. If it ain’t my two favorite people—after your mother, that is, Tom.” Ed wore his usual train conductor-type overalls, and his gray beard fell below his chin and was more scraggly than it had been when I’d last seen him.
He and Tom shook hands, both smiling broadly, and then Ed offered his favorite phrase. “What can I do ya? I saw you eyein’ those tools. Nice, huh?”
“They are, but if I buy another tool from you, I might have to open Tom’s Used Tool Shop. And that would be major competition for you.”
“Oh, you got nothin’ on me. Just try it and we’ll see what happens.” Ed laughed and looked at me. “Miss Jillian. I don’t see enough of you.”
I smiled. “Your shop is too tempting. I love that washstand, but I don’t know where I’d put it.”
“You love it? Then it’s yours,” he said. “Free, of course.”
“Wait a minute,” Tom said. “I pay for everything I get here.”
“Well, you ain’t pretty.” Ed shared his wonderful broad grin, the charming one he often surprised me with.
“Thanks, Ed,” I said. “But I need something from you that money can’t buy.”
“Uh-oh. You gettin’ yourself into trouble again, Miss Jillian?” Ed said.
“Me? No,” I said. “I’m helping Shawn with a little problem, and I heard you might have some info that could be useful. This concerns Ritaestelle Longworth.”
Ed pursed his lips and looked at the floor. The silence that ensued made me want to look at the floor myself. How could simple body language create tension so quickly?
“You know her, right?” Tom said.
When Ed looked up and faced Tom, his eyes had gone stone-cold. “Yeah. What of it?”
“I—I tried to visit her.” My stomach felt tight with apprehension. Ed was always affable and kind, but the look in his eyes was anything but. “They wouldn’t let me talk to her. Her staff, I mean. Problem is, I sensed something was wrong with her.”
“That’s assumin’ something was ever right with the woman,” Ed said.
“What does that mean?” Tom asked.
Ed went behind the long counter, knelt down and came up holding a rifle.
I reached for Tom’s hand, and he gripped my frigid fingers. But I let out the breath I’d been withholding when Ed placed the gun on the counter and started taking the rifle apart.
“Old guy brought this in this mornin’, Tom. You need yourself a nice little deer rifle?” Ed’s even tone had returned.
“You’re changing the subject. I thought you liked Jillian and would want to help her out,” Tom said.
He continued with his task and took several seconds before saying, “I like her just fine. But all’s I got is advice.” He leveled a stare at me. “Stay out of that town. Nothin’ but trouble there.”
Tom’s direct questions didn’t seem to be working too well, so maybe I could get Ed to talk with a gentler approach. “You seem upset, and I’m sorry if I’ve brought that on.”
“You asked for my help, and that advice is all I got. Trouble’s trouble, and that’s what you’ll find around every corner in Woodcrest,” he said. “The Longworths were never a happy bunch, and I expect nothin’s changed.”
“I was so impressed by the grounds and the house. I take it you’ve been there?” I said.
“Been there. Yup.” He had the rifle apart and was examining the barrel.
Tom said, “So what do—”
I squeezed his hand hard and interrupted with, “The house looks old, but it seems to be in fine shape. Ever collect anything from the place?”
Ed sighed. “You ain’t gonna quit, are you, Miss Jillian?”
“No,” I said. “I want to help a cat who needs a safe home—and you know how I am when it comes to cats.”
“Then I think we should sit down and have some tea. But that don’t mean I know anything that’s gonna help you.” He walked from behind the counter and into the hallway that led to the back of the house, gesturing for us to follow.
The tiny kitchen was as tidy and organized as Karen and Ed’s cute little home, in stark contrast to the last time I’d seen this section of the shop. Just a few months ago the room had been overflowing with old microwaves, small appliances and kitchen utensils. But now there was even space for a little round table and two chairs in the far corner. This makeover had to have been Karen’s doing.
The refrigerator was ancient—avocado green does give away an appliance’s age—but I knew that Ed could fix just about anything and that it had probably been a project. Ed brought a bentwood chair from another room, and Tom set it so that he could sit on the chair and still face the entrance to the kitchen.
Soon we were all sitting around the table, iced tea in front of us.
“Some things a cop never lets go of, even after he’s supposed to be done with the job,” Tom said. “I don’t like anyone sneaking up on me.”
“You and your mother do fall a little short in the trust department.” No smile. Ed’s usual good humor had definitely not returned.
“What can you tell me about Miss Longworth?” I said.
“First off,” Ed said, “you need to fill me in on Shawn’s problem. Does this have to do with Ritaestelle’s cats?”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “She has more than one?”
“Did way back when. You gonna tell me what’s what?” he said.
“Sure.” I explained for the third time today about my visit to the Longworth estate.
Ed shook his head, his lips twisted into one of those “I knew it” puckers. “I always told her she had too many folks hoverin’ around. Did she listen? No. That’s one hardheaded female.”
“Is there something wrong with her . . . well . . . up here?” I tapped my temple.
Ed threw back his head and laughed, surprising me so much that I nearly fell off my rather unstable chair. The man could change moods quicker than my cats could trap a moth.
He said, “When I knew her, there wasn’t much wrong with her except her I disease.”
“She has something wrong with her eyes?” Tom asked.
“No, Tom.” Ed poked his chest with his index finger. “I disease. As in I want things to go like this and I am sure you’ll listen since I am the one in charge.”
“Oh,” I said. “Money can do that to you, I guess.”
“Don’t get me wrong. She’s a fine, upstandin’ lady. Bighearted, too. But I’m not comfortable around all that silver and polished wood.” He swigged his tea and then set the glass down hard. “What else you wanna know about her?”
“Have you seen her recently?” I said. “I mean, she might have dementia or something, and maybe her cat would be better off in a new home.”
“She calls me up regular every Christmas.” Ed blinked several times, and his next words seemed forced. “Always says, ‘How you doing, Ed? I miss you, Ed.’ And that’s what happened this past year. Nothin’ wrong that I could tell.”
I don’t know what made me ask the next question. Just intuition, I suppose. “Were you in love with her?”
A flush rose from Ed’s neck up to his face, producing two red circles on his cheeks right above his beard. “Fell head over heels for that woman, I did.” He let out a humph. “Me and plenty of others.”
Five
Ed, still red-faced with embarrassment, turned to Tom. “But your mother’s the only one for me now.”
Tom held his hands out, palms facing Ed. “Hey. We all have stuff in our past. Some of it’s good, some of it’s bad and most of it’s forgotten.”
Ed nodded in agreement. “But Karen doesn’t need to hear about this. See, I’ve never mentioned Rita. I always called her plain Rita. Made a very complicated woman seem simpler, I always said.”
“I can safely say Ritaestelle has problems,” I said. “Go
od example—you mentioned she loved her cats. And yet Shawn found her Isis wandering outside.”
“That’s pretty darn puzzlin’. And something else bothers me about what you told me. Rita always answered the door herself, so her not bein’ right there to see why you came is strange. She wanted to know everything. Never had hired help screenin’ folks at the door even though she could afford to. George was always there behind, mind you. But I mean, the kitchen in that house probably has five rooms and ten folks runnin’ around cleaning the chicken for dinner. Yup, the Rita I knew would greet a guest herself.”
Despite his love for Tom’s mother, the concern in Ed’s voice told me that Ritaestelle’s predicament bothered him.
“Got any suggestions as to how I can reach her?” I said. “Even if she is beginning to suffer from Alzheimer’s or is perhaps on a medication that makes her confused—”
“Why do you keep sayin’ she’s losin’ it? Six months ago she was fine.” I heard a tinge of anger in Ed’s tone.
“Because she said she thought she knew who I was, I guess. Plus that wild look in her eyes,” I said. Just a feeling, I added to myself. Maybe Ed was right and I was the one a little off about this.
“If there’s anything wrong with Rita, the town surely knows,” he said. “Sit around at one of them fancy-schmancy outdoor cafés on Broad Street. Or go to that park in the center of town. Strike up a conversation. You’ll find out plenty.”
“I would, but the chief of police pulled me over on the way out of Woodcrest.” I recounted my interaction with Chief Shelton.
“Nancy Shelton is still bein’ a sourpuss, huh?” Ed said.
“You know her, too?” I said.
He sighed heavily and rested both hands on the table. “Here’s the deal. I’m from Woodcrest. Wrong side of the tracks, but I was born there. We, meaning me, Rita, Nancy, Rita’s cousins and a bunch of others, all went to the same school. We all graduated within two or three years of each other. Rita went right through every grade with me, even though her parents kept tryin’ to send her to a place for rich kids. She wanted to be with her friends, and she always got her way.”
I said, “When did you move to Mercy?” Wrong question, I knew immediately.
Ed stared down at the floor, two fingers rubbing circles on the table. “Why do you need to know about me? I got nothin’ to do with that place or that woman anymore.”
His slumped shoulders and his downcast gaze made him seem so much older. What was distressing Ed so much? Whatever it was, I felt awful for making him feel so uncomfortable.
I leaned toward him and gently said, “I don’t want to invade your privacy, Ed. This is about Ritaestelle, not you. But I—I think we need her story. Something is wrong in that house. I felt it. Here.” I tapped my abdomen with my fist.
“Maybe so, but I’m about wore out with all this talkin’,” he said. “I got things to do.” His tight jaw and curt tone told me he was shutting down.
Tom saw this, too, because he stood abruptly. “We understand, don’t we, Jilly?”
“Certainly.” I reached across and placed my hand over Ed’s. “I’m sorry if I upset you.” The contented Ed I knew had disappeared before my eyes. This sadness and anger I’d stirred up made me feel guilty, but I couldn’t help but be curious, too. What had happened between Ed and Ritaestelle? Bad breakup? Unrequited love?
Ed withdrew his hand. “Who says I’m upset?” He gathered our tea glasses and carried them to the small sink.
“Come on,” Tom whispered through his teeth. He nodded toward the door.
“Guess we should go,” I said.
Tom and I walked toward the kitchen entrance. Ed was rinsing the glasses in the sink and didn’t turn as we were walking out. But he did say, “You want to avoid Nancy, I say go in disguise. That hall closet’s full of stuff that could make you look like a different person.”
“Okay,” I said tentatively.
Tom held my elbow and led me out the kitchen door and toward the closet, whispering, “Let’s do what he says.”
He opened the closet door, and several shoe boxes fell from the top shelf, spilling their contents at our feet. Obviously Karen’s touch was missing here.
I knelt and gathered up costume jewelry and fancy hair ornaments. Since Tom is over six feet tall, he made room on the shelf for the boxes.
I whispered, “Do I honestly have to play dress-up to talk to the people in that town?” I glanced up at the mustysmelling dresses and suits crammed in the closet.
“We’ll take a few things to humor Ed, okay?” Tom said softly. “I’ve never seen him this bothered by anything, but apparently he not only has shoe boxes and trunks. He has a Pandora’s box, too.”
“You’re right.” I pulled out a cotton print dress hiding between two wool jackets. “How’s this?” I held it up in front of me.
But Tom had started digging around in a plastic container on the closet floor. He whipped out a blond wig. “Or this?”
“It’s July, if you haven’t noticed. I’ll end up with blisters on my scalp from the heat if I wear that.”
“I’m sure Chief Shelton will remember your hair . . . your face.” He ran a finger along my jawline. “Hard not to notice you.” He held the wig out.
I took it and held it to my nose. “Smells like a combination of my grandmother’s Jean Naté and talcum powder.” I sighed. “That’s what I get for being a redhead. People remember the hair. We’ll take the dress and the wig—but only to make Ed happy. A dye job might be easier than wearing this.” I shook the wig, expecting a baby powder cloud to appear around the thing.
Tom fixed several strands of hair behind my ear. “Don’t you dare think about changing anything.” He pulled me to him and kissed me.
The wig—or Tom—had won.
After Tom dropped me off at home with my not-so-fancy dress and my ugly wig, three very interested cats followed on my heels as I took these prize items to my bedroom. Maybe if I left the fake hair within reach of prying paws, I’d have a good excuse to stick to sunglasses as my only disguise. I couldn’t wear a wig that resembled something that looked like it had been run over by a lawnmower. That was what this fake hair would look like if my three felines had their way with it.
I went to the master bathroom and set the wig down. I tried to pull my too-short hair away from my face. I was hoping I could hide my hair under a giant sun hat. But a big hat on a stranger in a small town like Woodcrest was almost as memorable as red hair. And after several tries with bobby pins and clips, I couldn’t make my hair obey anyway.
Tomorrow, Tom and I planned to visit Woodcrest and at least one of those “fancy-schmancy” cafés Ed had mentioned. I needed to see if I could tolerate this silly disguise.
But Syrah had jumped up on the marble vanity, and before I could stop him, he swiped the blond tresses down to his awaiting partners in crime, Merlot and Chablis. This wig was apparently the best thing I’d brought home in a long time.
I snatched up my future disguise and shook a finger at the cats. “You’ll get your chance, but not right now, friends.”
I stretched the wig onto my head and stared at myself in horror. I looked way too much like Lydia Monk, the deputy county coroner who is obsessed with Tom. And who definitely had it in for me now that she knew Tom and I were getting close. I ripped the wig off and shook my head at an attempt to restore my layered haircut. But I was still resigned to wearing it tomorrow. I tucked it away on the top shelf of my closet. I had just closed the door, much to the chagrin of my three amigos, when I heard the doorbell.
My kitties didn’t follow me as I hurried to answer the door. The challenge of a closed closet door and what lay behind was far too important to be spoiled by a human visit.
Once I got to the foyer, I checked the peephole and saw Shawn’s face. Despite the distortion, I could tell he was unhappy. I took a deep breath. Even though I wanted another chance to talk to Miss Longworth, I felt as if I had to tell him about my failure, and now was as
good a time as any.
When I opened the door, I was surprised to see he wasn’t alone. He came bearing a pet carrier. And from the wails emanating from that crate, I knew it held a cat.
After he came inside, he set the carrier down in the foyer and, hands on hips, said, “You gotta help me with this . . . this . . . diva.”
I knelt and peeked through the crate’s door. He’d brought Isis. I offered, “Hi, sweetie,” and her reply was a wide-mouthed hiss.
I stood. “Sure. What can I do?”
“She can go back home, right? Your plan worked and you talked with the Longworth woman?”
“Um . . . why don’t we go into the living room and chat? You look like you could use some sweet tea.” Before he could protest—because Shawn likes to protest about anything—I started walking through the foyer. “Just leave her where she is. She’ll be fine.”
“But I don’t have time—”
I turned and gestured for him to follow me. “Yes, you do. You look like you could use a break. Besides, we need to talk.”
He reluctantly followed, saying, “I don’t like the sound of this.”
And your instincts would be correct, I thought.
Once we were settled in the living room with our tea—me on John’s old leather recliner and Shawn on the sofa—I explained yet again what had happened today.
When I finished, Shawn closed his eyes and pressed two freckled fingers and a thumb on his forehead and massaged the area between his sun-bleached eyebrows. We’re both redheads, but he’d retained far more freckles than I, and his hair was almost the color of persimmons.
He said, “You’ve done enough.”
“No,” I said, so forcefully I surprised myself. “I don’t want to give up. Not yet.”
Shawn pointed in the direction of the foyer. “That is the most spoiled, arrogant cat I’ve ever had the displeasure to encounter. She won’t eat regular cat kibble, she hisses and swats at everyone who tries to get near her and she’s . . . she’s . . . too full of herself. You should see her walk around my kennel like she owns the place. I’ve had her for a week, and she’s wearing on my nerves.”
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