“No, it was sitting there when I arrived. Why?”
“Well,” Franklin flipped a few pages of his notebook back, “witnesses saw you give it to her, and she seemed pleased to get it. I thought perhaps it was some sort of peace offering from you?”
“No, not at all. As I said, it was simply sitting on my counter, obviously delivered to the wrong booth. She seemed to think it was from Jack Guilfoil, but I didn’t see that name, or any other besides Linda’s, on the wrapping.”
“I see.” He referred back to his notebook. “So you weren’t trying to patch things up between you?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Then you still hold a lot of grievance against Ms. Weeks?”
“Up to the time she collapsed, she and I were not on good terms, no, though I am sorry this happened to her.”
“You said you two had been friendly for a period in New York. Did that include meals together?”
Meals? Where was this going? “Yes, we met a few times for lunches.”
“Only lunches?”
“I guess there were one or two dinners with others, plus a few larger get-togethers that had food. Why, sheriff? What does that have to do –?”
“So you’ve eaten with Ms. Weeks. You were aware of what she could and could not eat?”
“You mean, if she was dieting?” Jo asked, puzzled. “I don’t know. I guess I remember once or twice she mentioned watching her weight, skipping desserts, that kind of thing. What --?”
“I’m talking about her food allergies. You knew about them?”
“Allergies? No, I didn’t know she had any allergies.”
“She never mentioned that she could have severe reactions to certain foods?” The sheriff had pulled off his glasses by this time, and his eyes – which were very dark brown – watched her unblinkingly.
“No, she didn’t,” Jo said. “Don’t tell me she was allergic to chocolate. But if she was, why would she –-”
“She wasn’t allergic to chocolate, Mrs. McAllister. She was allergic to peanuts. Highly allergic, it seems.”
“But the candy was vanilla creams.”
“You knew that?”
“Yes, because Linda said so.” Jo finally realized, with shock, that she was being looked at with suspicion. “Linda said something about Jack Guilfoil remembering that vanilla creams were her favorite. Have you spoken with Jack Guilfoil about this?”
“Mr. Guilfoil is recovering from surgery in a Cleveland hospital at the moment, for a burst appendix which occurred two days ago.”
“Oh. Then I suppose he didn’t actually send the candy.”
“Highly unlikely. Or that he was able to inject ground peanut paste into each of the vanilla creams in the box.”
“Ground peanuts!” Jo stared at the sheriff, grappling with what that meant. He stared back at her, waiting. But waiting for what? Jo’s mind raced. So Linda didn’t die from a weak heart or a blood clot to the brain. She died from an allergic reaction to peanuts – an extreme reaction – which someone knew would happen, and caused to happen. Someone who wanted Linda dead.
“Sheriff,” Jo said, mustering up as much firmness to her voice as she could, “I disliked Linda, but not enough to want her dead, believe me.”
The sheriff remained silent a moment, then said, “I wonder if you can explain to me, then, why Ms. Weeks would say,” he searched through his notebook pages until he found what he wanted, “when she was still able to gasp out a few words, ‘She poisoned me’. Ms. Weeks then, apparently, pointed toward you.”
CHAPTER 6
Jo returned to building ten, shaken. Shoppers had flooded the place once more, and she hurried to finish the booth preparations that Julian Honeycutt and Sheriff Franklin had interrupted. She worked on automatic pilot, though, as her mind grappled with all that had bombarded it in the space of a few minutes: first that Linda had died; then that her death wasn’t from natural causes as Jo had assumed, but from murder; then that she, Jo, was apparently a suspect!
How could this all have come about? It was too much. Jo looked over at Gabe’s booth, longing for his calm and sensible input, but all she could see was the top of his gray head as he dealt with four or five enthusiastic toy customers at once. One or two drifted her way, and soon Jo became as busy as he, a situation that normally would have pleased her but that morning felt only burdensome.
Her professionalism, however, kicked in and Jo managed to smile as she greeted and explained and rang up sales, while at the same time dealing with flashes of Linda as she gasped for air, her throat swelling close from anaphylaxis. Questions sprang up like ragweed after a summer rain. With as severe an allergy as she had, wouldn’t Linda have carried an EpiPen? Jo remembered a classmate in school who had swollen up from multiple bee stings and who thereafter toted the spring-loaded hypodermic, ready to inject what could be life-saving epinephrine.
Why hadn’t Linda ever mentioned such an allergy when they had known each other in New York? Wouldn’t something like that normally come up? Obviously, Sheriff Franklin thought so.
And why had Linda seemingly accused Jo of poisoning her? That was the most infuriating question of all. It was as if even in dying Linda had to throw one final jab at Jo. The trouble was, that jab was a major one, tons worse than intentionally spilling coffee over jewelry or calling Mike’s death a suicide. That jab could land Jo in prison. Jo found her earlier conflicted sadness over Linda’s death replaced by a simmering anger. Linda had done it again. The woman caused endless trouble. Well, darned if Jo was going to let her get away with it!
Jo stopped herself on that thought. Let Linda get away with it? What was she thinking! Linda had been murdered. The person Jo needed to care about getting away with anything was whoever had put the ground peanuts into Linda’s chocolates. If that person wasn’t identified - and soon - Jo would remain suspect number one with her life turned upside down.
Her thoughts flew back to the conversation she had overheard Friday night while sitting on the bench during her dinner break. The two vendors discussing Linda had mentioned a Bill Ewing as having reason to have a grudge against her. Who was this man? Jo wondered, and how could she find out more about him? She glanced over once again toward Gabe, who was probably her best source of anything connected with Michicomi. She needed to talk to him as soon as she had the chance.
In a couple of hours and around the time Jo’s empty stomach started sending distress signals, Jo was surprised to see Meg Boyer, the woman Loralee Phillips had introduced on the first day of the craft show, appear at her booth. With all the shoppers ebbing and flowing through her area, Jo might not have immediately recognized Meg except for the distinctive jacket she wore once again, a pale blue denim with a dancing Kokopeli figure embroidered on its breast pocket, a bit of whimsy that seemed somehow out of sync with the more subdued Meg.
Jo greeted her. “Come for another day of shopping?”
“Yes, but also to tell you that Ina Mae isn’t able to come today.”
Jo’s empty stomach sank.
“Her next door neighbor,” Meg went on to explain, “slipped on her deck this morning and cracked her shoulder, so Ina Mae took her to the emergency room. Ina Mae called Loralee to see if she could come in for her, and Loralee told her not to worry, but then remembered she had a church committee meeting to go to. Loralee knew I was planning to come here anyway – there’s a pottery making demonstration I want to see at two – so she asked if I’d mind filling in for her. I said sure, that is, if it’s okay with you.”
Jo grinned at the slightly plump woman who had delivered this involved explanation in placid monotone and now awaited Jo’s approval.
“It’s more than okay with me,” Jo said. “I had just reached the point of really needing a break, so I appreciate your stepping in for Ina Mae – and Loralee – on such short notice.” Jo then remembered Meg’s words to her two days ago about having known Linda and asked if she’d heard what had happened.
Meg nodded. “It was on the news this
morning. If it had happened in Abbotsville, I would have found out a lot sooner.”
Jo agreed with that, having seen first-hand how quickly information could spread through the network of Abbotsville neighbors. “I’m sorry if it’s at all upsetting. You said you’d known her in high school.”
Meg shrugged. “I knew of Linda more than I knew her, and hadn’t seen her since graduation. What did she die of? They didn’t say on the news.”
Jo gave Meg a basic run-down. She took it fairly calmly, but her eyebrows went up when she heard the cause of Linda’s death.
“You hadn’t heard about her allergy back in school?” Jo asked.
“No, but I can guess why. Back then Linda was working hard to be part of a group that was tops in everything – best dressed, student council, drama club leads – things like that. I don’t think she’d be likely to bring up anything that would make her sound less than perfect.”
Jo nodded. That might be exactly why Linda had never mentioned it to her. It was a chink in her armor, an armor that needed to be kept highly polished in her efforts to dazzle. Career struggles and health problems did not fit into her image requirements. Too bad she hadn’t also considered honesty and integrity as necessary to the fit.
Jo gave Meg a quick run through on handling the booth, then grabbed her pocketbook and promised not to be long. Instead of heading straight out of the building, though, she turned toward Gabe’s toy booth.
“Like to take a lunch break with me?” she asked. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
Gabe looked up from the dollhouse he was examining. “Tell you what. You go ahead and grab something, and I’ll meet you in ten minutes at the tea kiosk. I’ve already had a bowl of soup, but I wouldn’t mind a cup of Patty’s spicy tea.”
“Sounds good.” Jo checked her watch. “See you then.”
In ten minutes she was standing near the edge of Patty’s Tea Shack, nibbling at her chicken salad roll-up, while Gabe waited in line for the tea.
“How about I get two?” he’d offered, guaranteeing that Jo would love the Chai. She’d agreed, and when he handed her the large Styrofoam cup and she inhaled some of the delicious-smelling steam that wafted toward her, she was glad she had.
“There’s an empty bench over there,” Jo said, pointing with her elbow to an area about twenty feet away, and led the way.
When they’d settled down, Gabe took a careful sip of his hot beverage and looked toward her. “Okay, fire away. What do you need to know?”
Glad to get straight to the point, Jo asked, “What do you know about Bill Ewing in relation to Linda?”
“Bill?” The gray eyebrows on Gabe’s lined face went up. “You’ve been hearing things, huh?”
“Not much, just a hint that something major had happened between them in Morgantown.”
“Well, normally I try to keep out of such things, but I suspect you have a good reason for asking. Is that so?”
Jo took a bracing sip of her Chai, which she found delicious. In a cozier conversation she would have savored it, but for the moment a quick swallow had to do. “Apparently, one of Linda’s dying breaths was used to indicate that I had poisoned her.” She told Gabe about her interview with Sheriff Franklin, and he shook his head sadly.
“Sounds like she put you in quite a spot,” he said.
“That she did. But there’s nothing says I have to stay there. I intend to find out who doctored up that candy and sent it to Linda. Bill Ewing may or may not be the one, but I have to start somewhere.”
Gabe nodded, understanding. “Bill does photography,” he began. “He sells framed black and white prints of things like bridges, snowy landscape scenes, things like that. He depends a lot, financially, on coming to these shows, but they’re juried, as you know. and not everyone who applies gets into every show. Sometimes it’s just a matter of trying to keep a balance – not too many of one type of thing – or of simply needing to make space for new people now and then.
“But Linda, once she started coming, was getting into each and every show. Rumors started flying about favoritism. That happens once in a while. People, even craft show organizers, are human, with all the usual human frailties. But Linda made the rumors particularly hard to shrug off.” He took a sip of his Chai. “You know what she was like. She had to be sure everyone was a hundred percent aware of her success, pretending it was totally due to her outstanding skills, but at the same time dropping hints about her high connections.
“It drove Bill crazy, especially when she started putting down his work to others, which of course got back to him. Bill is not a calm, coolheaded person. If he were Irish like my dear wife,” Gabe said with a small wink, “I’d blame it on that, but he’s not. So he blustered and huffed and complained to the management, which got him nothing but what he considered empty assurances that there was no favoritism being shown.
“At Morgantown things came to a head. Bill had learned that he was turned down for participation at the Atlanta show – a major, big money-making stop – and that Linda was, once again, in. He stormed and fumed all day. Then, when he couldn’t stand it any longer he stomped over to Linda’s booth and made a big scene. He caused such a ruckus, part of it, I heard, brought on from her agitating him even more, that security had to pull him away, and he was disciplined by having to close up his booth a day early.”
“And Linda suffered no consequences and continued to show up at every festival.”
Gabe nodded.
“Would Sheriff Franklin have been informed of this, as he obviously was of my problem with Linda?”
Gabe squirmed. “He probably should have, but I doubt he was. Bill, you see, is an old-timer here, and despite his prickliness, people like him, or at least feel some loyalty to him. They wouldn’t want to get him in trouble.”
“I, on the other hand, am a newcomer,” Jo said.
“Unfortunately, true. But that doesn’t, of course, mean that the sheriff won’t eventually learn about what went on between Bill and Linda.”
“But it might be greatly minimized as to its importance.”
“It might be,” Gabe acknowledged.
“Well, what do you think?” Jo asked. “Would Bill Ewing be angry enough with Linda to want to kill her?”
Gabe’s face clouded. “That is a question I can’t answer with one hundred percent confidence, I’m afraid. I’ve been flummoxed too often by people to guess what they are capable of and what they’re not. No one can see everything that’s going on deep inside another person’s head, can they? So, though I hope Bill would never think of committing a deed as terrible as murder, I can’t guarantee that he hasn’t.”
Jo nodded, understanding. She, too, had been flummoxed in the past, and it had come close to having dire consequences for her. She hoped it hadn’t destroyed her ability to trust altogether, but it had certainly made her more cautious.
“Well,” she said, “then I guess I’ll need to judge for myself.” She pulled out and unfolded the map which listed Michicomi vendors by name and location. “Looks like Bill Ewing’s in building five.” She checked her watch. “If I hurry, I’ll have a few minutes to at least look him over.”
Jo browsed through Bill Ewing’s booth, which, unlike hers, had no obstructive front counters. Instead, an open area invited shoppers to stroll in and examine the many framed prints hung on back and side walls. Besides Jo, two other shoppers peered at his work, and Bill Ewing himself perched on a high stool beside a small table where Jo presumed he handled his sales.
A crew cut, husky man in his middle years, he acknowledged, rather than welcomed visitors to his booth with a brisk nod and answered questions about his photos when asked. But he obviously preferred to let his work speak for itself. Jo got the definite impression that given the choice, he would be out taking more photos instead of dealing with potential customers. His work impressed Jo, and if she’d actually been shopping and could afford them, one of his prints of a lighthouse at sunset would have
greatly tempted her.
“Don’t you have any pictures of animals?” a well-dressed woman asked. She clutched bags from several purchases and tiptoed along on what might have been three-inch Prada slides. “Baby seals or maybe kitties?”
The woman looked like she could afford to buy cartloads of kitty pictures if she found them, but Ewing simply grumbled, “No animals.”
“Oh,” the woman said and tripped off. Jo watched her go with a small sigh, wishing she could guide the well-heeled woman toward her own booth to discuss any variety of custom made, animal-themed jewelry. But she remained in place in her undercover role.
In a moment it seemed to pay off as another vendor, a sparkly T-shirted woman, wandered over to chat with Ewing. When Jo caught a low-voiced mention of Linda, she moved closer.
“… heard the local sheriff’s asking about anyone who had a beef with her.”
“Yeah? My name come up?”
The woman barked out a laugh that ended in a phlegmy smoker’s cough. “Can’t say. Someone sure had it in for her, though.”
Ewing simply grunted, then glanced over toward Jo who immediately focused on a dramatic shot of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. “Can you stay a few minutes?” he asked the cougher.
“Yeah, that’s why I came. Figured it might be time.”
Ewing bent down to a duffel bag at his feet and pulled out a small, black case. “You figured right,” he said, and quickly took off.
As Jo turned to watch, the woman who was standing in for him smiled at her. “Diabetic,” she said, apparently feeling Jo needed an explanation. “My Gran had the same problem. Had to jab herself with needles every day. God, I’m glad I never came down with that, knock on wood. I can’t stand needles, can you?”
Jo smiled and shook her head. So Bill Ewing was proficient with hypodermics, she thought as she looked toward where he had walked off. She doubted the fine needles used for insulin could handle peanut paste, but wondered about the coincidence. Thoughts of injections would occur quite naturally to a diabetic who handled such things every day, wouldn’t they? Plus, he might know where to find the proper sized needle. But would he have also known of Linda’s allergy? That was still a major question.
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